Tabula Rasa
by Lostpharoah
Summary: Aristide escaped. The F.E.A.R team was torn apart after this second war, many members dead and gone. New recruits have arrived, most not knowing the horrors in store, innocent. But one knows this new enemy better than any other. Who can you trust?
1. Prologue

**Tabula Rasa**

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A polished piece of F.E.A.R Fiction

Written by LostPharoah.

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A/N: A few small points, before you begin reading this tiny epic I've been turning over in my mind.

This story is rated M, for violence, a smattering of curses, disturbing subject matter, and possible sexual situations.

Description: Aristide escaped. The F.E.A.R team was torn apart after this second war, with many members dead and gone. New recruits have arrived, most not knowing the horrors in store, innocent of the evil . But one of them will understand this new enemy, better than any other. The statement posed now, is 'Don't judge a book by its cover'—Even if the book has been read before. Who can be trusted, truly? The answer may surprise you.

It takes place after F.E.A.R, but I am unsure where to place it. For now, I will tell you—Forget the ending of F.E.A.R 2. Most of you know what I mean, I do hope. But, I offer no spoilers for those of you who haven't heard the rather shocking news. Let's just say that this takes place after F.E.A.R 2, that sounds right. (Everything happened, except for that last shocking scene.)

Attention: A kind reviewer reminded me of this. Because of the huge problem of Armacham, in my stories universe, F.E.A.R and all Special Teams were merged into one huge force. So, Delta is a part of F.E.A.R, throughout this. Thank you for clearing that up!

This will be multi-chapter.

And now, let us begin. Enjoy Tabula Rasa.

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Prologue

"Jesus, Stokes, we just refurbished this fucking hunk of metal. Don't need you bleeding all over the place, guess who gets to clean it up?"

"My most sincere apologies, you son of a bitch. I'll do my best to dodge the bullet next time."

Fight, return, the common banter, rinse and repeat. It was true, he noted—Stokes was bleeding all over the seats that were being used as a makeshift bed. It was alright, the seats weren't needed. Only three were left of Dark Signal, four if they were to count the new pilot. Headquarters would be pleased; now, they could get a smaller chopper. Lord knows the budget was tight enough before this hell broke loose. Imagine the losses. Lives, that may be okay—Everyone dies. But money, God forbid.

Though, now wasn't the proper time to be mentioning God.

A loud crack echoed outside, bright flashes flowing through the helicopter in quick succession. The shadows they created were eerily familiar, and he soon expected the flashes to occur, the creation of bolts to fall out of the sky—But it was impossible to focus, with the quips coming out of the 1st Lieutenants mouth.

"Easy on the turbulence! I'll be dead by the time we reach the base!"

Morales rolled his eyes, sitting on the cold metal floor beside the bleeding, blonde haired powerhouse. "Oh, get off it. It's a flesh wound. Didn't hit any internal organs, just nicked your side. Hell, you got us a valuable piece of information. Aristide is a shitty shot. We can work with that, eh, Becket?"

Glancing up, he forced a smirk, nodding his head. His skin was still dripping with sweat, mind jumbled. He was tempted to sleep it off, but sleep no longer seemed relaxing. If he closed his eyes, he feared what he would see on the other side of his lids. And if he did manage to shut them completely, and drift into a not-so-gentle slumber, he feared opening them. Anything could be standing over his bed.

She could be standing there.

He could search through his emotions, shift through the files in his mind, try to pick out exactly what he felt at that particular moment in time. But there were awaiting eyes on him, and he himself wasn't sure he was ready to investigate it himself.

"We'll get her, no doubt. She's wounded, I'm pretty sure. And even if she isn't, it will take her a while to regroup. Hell, maybe she's dead. Any number of ways it could have happened. Should have left my pistol there, maybe she would have taken herself out. "

Stokes stifled a laugh, a rare thing, but it was gone as soon as it came, replaced by a pained scowl. "Damn it, Becket, of course you choose now to be funny. Wonderful timing."

Morales smirked, leaning over and giving Becket a sound pat on the back, nodding and glancing out the window. "Good to see you still have some spirit. Won't lie, I was pretty worried back there. Sure, three of us were in the 'copter, but I thought maybe only two really came back."

Becket smirked again, to the best of his ability. Manny may as well get a degree in psychology, seemed he understood the situation pretty well.

"Can't get rid of me that easily."

Rain was pounding the shell of the craft, harder every second, and it seemed like everyone was yelling to be heard. It was a short ride back, they would land soon. The realization came that he would have to stand, greet others, give some kind of report. The doors would open, and his feet would touch solid ground. That was fine. His mind, though, maybe it would stay in the clouds. The grey, thrashing clouds.

Red, to pale white, to a deep yellow. His vision was normal, at the moment, but he feared when reality would shift.

Maybe he really didn't come back.

Decent had begun, and the stars stayed covered up by the deep black blanket. They hit the ground with a slight thud, sending more complaints from the Lieutenant—but when the doors opened, the stretcher was waiting. Morales stayed out of the way, as the medical team carefully lifted her and put her on the pale white gurney. The pure white immediately began to turn red where the wound dripped, only prompting more orders from the team outside. They covered her up fully, making sure the rain didn't hit her skin. Having her covered up all the way, made it seem like the body bags he had seen earlier.

Her skeletal body had been searching frantically, but for whom?

_'Arthur…'_

"Becket! We're free. Time for a brewskie, eh?" Morales gripped the other soldier's shoulder, before jumping out of the chopper, nearly sprinting towards the front door of headquarters. With a heavy sigh, Becket stood, wavering on his feet.

Oddly silent.

He expected the usual signal that she was around. Or, if she wasn't near, it didn't matter. She could manipulate what he saw, what was true. And the second everything around him shifted, the second he could hear ringing in his ears, she was there.

_'Help him.'_

"Becket! Come on, man, open bar! Lord knows we need it. On the house!" Another voice echoed through the rain, probably someone from another squad, and he quickly made his way inside, not jogging, walking as he normally did, maybe even a slower pace. The rain was cold, and the sweat on his brow mixed with the droplets. He could hear every one hit the ground. Oddly comforting. Normal. No hint of any odd happenings. Yet, his heartbeat wouldn't return to normal. And as he walked under the overhang, and through the open door, instinct told him to glance around, holding out his gun, holding his breath. Surely, she would be in the shadows. The red dress, the doll clutched in her hand. Or the tall, painfully thin naked body, hunched in fear.

Nothing.

He should have been enthused. He should have been excited, relieved, that nothing was happening. The sound of a television in the background, his 'coworkers' hanging around a nearby table, laughing, recounting their tales of heroism.

Things couldn't end this easily. There had been explosions, fires, gunshots. But none of those things could contain her. She wasn't gone.

Looks like optimism was no longer on the menu.

Wandering over to the table, slowly, the humorous talk and well meant jokes ceased, and all eyes came to rest on him. It was unnerving, being stared at; usually, Stokes would say something to distract the others, or would usually be going on and on about some new mission plan.

A younger member of the team, one that he knew to be a paper-pusher, looked like he wanted to say something. But before it could be uttered, a voice came over the loudspeaker, making all of them jump.

_'Attention. Effecting immediately, all members of the F.E.A.R team, please converge in the main conference room. I repeat…'_

A chorus of mumbles and curses were heard throughout the area, fists banging on the table, eyes rolling. The only words spoken before everyone followed orders were "Can we bring out beers?" and "This had better be good."

"I swear to God, will they always run us into the ground like this? We have enough on our plates already. We made it out of that skirmish, but it ain't over. We're human, though, we need our fucking beauty sleep."

"Ah, shut the hell up, Morales. From the looks of it, Becket and Stokes did all the damn work. What did you do, stay behind on your computer?"

As they entered the conference room, the various jibes ended. The serious face of Rowdy Betters stared at them all, as he waved a hand, inviting them to sit. Some bowed their heads, others continued to parade about, seeming to be without a care in the world. As soon as they were all seated, the television screen in front of them flashed, with four faces and names appearing, side by side.

Cedric Griffin. Harold Keegan. Redd Jankowski. James Fox.

The effect of these photos, taken when the recently departed teammates had joined the squad, had an instantaneous effect. Heads were bowed; hats were removed and placed over the chest. Becket averted his eyes, staring at the floor, like a child who had been scolded for eating a snack too close to dinner.

_'She wanted me.'_

After a few moments of thick silence, the Commissioner spoke up, after a quick clearing of the throat. "We have lost some fine soldiers. I ask that before you celebrate, you think of them. Of their families. And also, of the fact that we haven't won yet. We're getting news, the situation has changed. Drastically."

Eyes glanced up quickly because of this. No one had the strength or conviction to speak, after the reprimand. Another clearing of the throat, and he continued.

"We don't have full details. It seems that the bastards over at Armacham were working on a technology that we weren't aware of. Something that may have a drastic effect on our mission. Seems they gave up on it a while back, but they were further along than we expected, when it was dug out of the vault. It may have been too late to use it."

He needed to speak up. "Commissioner, is it to do with Alma?" A silly question, he had mentioned the vault. What else was there to Armacham anymore, than this monstrocity they were responsible for creating? She wouldn't have been a monster, otherwise.

No. She couldn't have been. They could have helped, why didn't they help?

_'It is the nature of men to make monsters.' _

A stiff nod confirmed. And it made the others more attentive too, dragging them away from their alcoholic beverages.

"Something to get rid of that bitch?"

Rodney glared at the employee. "Maybe it isn't the best time to tell you. I'll let you know the basics—It is a kind of suppressant, for her powers. Some kind of machine, that can be worn. It was small, we almost overlooked it. Seems one of our cleanup crews found some blueprints for it."

The television screen flashed again, showing something far too complicated for drunk, exhausted soldiers to understand. But they pretended to know, ears open, minds trying to stay with the flow.

"Alma Wade was a troubled child, as most of you now know. Her nightmares, her psychic abilities, caused her a kind of pain and strife that her father wished to rid her of. But that wish was warped, with the help of Aristide, and perhaps the madness that he had done his best to hide. Before they put her in the vault, this was being crafted. It may not stop her fully, but one could say that it would hold her in one place, somehow put a leash on her."

Everyone seemed to let out one collective sigh. It was one of happiness—but, of course, with the new realization that he had become a pessimist, Becket decided that he would have to be the bearer of bad news.

"Alma is a spirit, a ghost. We can't put it on her unless she has a physical body. Hers is long gone."

He was sure he felt a kick under the table, along with a few four letter words being whispered out of the mouths around him.

The commissioner didn't look fazed, as he nodded his assent. "Correct. Our own technicians are working on the prototype…It was so close to completion, but we think that they lost focus on it. Most likely, Alma tried to keep them from their work. Hid the plans, brainwashed them, who knows. But it seems she isn't interfering, at the moment. Hell, we may have already finished it. They have an idea of how to use it, I haven't been told."

The question hadn't been answered. Just some more questions, always questions.

" We've already shared this interesting news to our new recruits. You'll have another three to work with, Becket, I'll leave them to you. Stokes won't be back for a while, and it seems like you've just gained years of experience in a twenty four hour period. You look like shit, son."

A sharp phone ring made them all jump one more time, and Rodney picked up without missing a beat. No hello, no how are you—Just an obviously fast talking voice on the other end. They all tried to listen in vain, as the commissioners voice flashed more than one emotion.

"You're insane. You're all fucking insane. Right, well, if anyone dies…If you're sure. Understood, Mister President. Understood. They will be informed. I'll let them sleep, first, don't you think—No? What do you mean, new enemy, isn't it Alm--Alright. Thank you, Sir. Yes, I'll brief them. Yes. "

The phone was set down, painfully slow. Some were standing, some seemed to be waiting for a punch line. The man before them seemed calm, to the eye. But anyone who had known him for any period of time, knew to look at his eyes. And in them, were three emotions, very distinct.

Fear, Curiosity, and Anger.

Silence.

"It looks like you'll have four new recruits, Becket." He took off his glasses, massaging the bridge of his nose with his fingers. "I have a feeling things are about to get messy."

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Prologue Complete, 100%

Coming soon,** Interval One: Longhand Plans** – In which a new enemy seems to be creating problems, bigger than anyone expected. And the fourth recruit causes riots and rifts in the company.


	2. Chapter 1: Longhand Plans

**_Tabula Rasa_**

**Interval One**

**Longhand Plans**

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A/N – The prologue was a little jumpy, I admit—But I did want to catch some attention. There will be twists and turns galore during this strange new quest, and things will move at a breakneck pace. But hopefully, you all don't mind coming along for the ride.

As mentioned before, F.E.A.R encompasses all special squads in this story. They have all decided to meet in one area, to defeat this new menace. (Yes, new. Something a little unexpected.)

You may start to see some characters for who they truly are. Who says that F.E.A.R is ethical all the time?

With that, please enjoy Tabula Rasa, Interval One. Hopefully, you'll get 100%.

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**Interval One**

_Begin_

Confusion was the rampant emotion in the room.

The Commissioner, however, maybe in some form of pity on the already shaken crew before him, spoke up quickly, crossing his arms in clear distaste. Something was very wrong. And maybe, to be honest, they couldn't handle it anymore. Hell, could things get any worse, any more unbelievable? Becket couldn't think of anything more difficult than trying to stop a hateful spirit bent on revenge.

"Despite what I've just been told, I'm making an override of sorts. I ain't giving you this information now, your heads aren't screwed on straight. Go back to your quarters, get some sleep. We can deal with this in the morning."

Argument didn't seem to be a factor. Standing, and pushing chairs in, the men in the room exited, excited at the chance to sleep, and probably too drunk to stay in serious conversation either way. After examining all the faces he could, he made the decision that Rodney looked the most worn out of all of them.

Whatever had just been said would change everything. That much he could deduce.

"Rodney, is it…" Becket stood, all of a sudden feeling strong again, fatigue disappearing before he had a chance to be amazed. "Does this have to do with Alma?"

Silence seemed to be the best answer. When the others eyes met his, there was no nod, no assent to his inquiry. Color stayed the same, nothing warped out of recognition. And the older man's whisper was no comfort, only sustaining his newfound fear of sleep.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Hell, I can't get this through my fucking head." A hard bang on the table, the man's fist clenched as tight as he was able, and Becket stepped back. Teeth bared, the wrinkled face of the man before him seemed to display a kind of fear and unrestrained hatred, that trying to describe it would be an insult. "Things only just ended, you came back with who you could salvage. And already, in the few hours that things have been peaceful…"

He turned, taking a deep breath, maybe trying to relax—Or, maybe trying to stay conscious. "Things have taken a 180, Sergeant. Our enemy is different this time." He stopped, mouth still open, as if he wanted to say more. Instead, a hand was reached out, placed tightly on Beckets shoulder. "Get some rest. You'll need it. I honestly don't know how the others will react, but it seems you're pretty damn level headed. That's good, that's what this calls for. I don't think I'll sleep a wink, and I'm afraid you won't either, if I say another word."

With that, the man left the room. And Becket was left to try to piece things together with his own imagination.

He prayed that any blood covered imagery he came up with, any frightening scenario of death and decay, was wrong. Hopefully, he would still be sane tomorrow.

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The smoke seemed to make shapes, as it floated up towards the black sky. It wasn't raining anymore, just overcast—And the silence was even more pronounced, when he couldn't hear the droplets hitting the concrete.

Sitting back, having a smoke, not focusing on any one thing. Hell, he felt pretty damn normal.

"I have an excuse for not being in bed, but what the hell, Becket? You've had the shittiest day out of anyone, I'd think you'd be out like a light."

Glancing up, Stokes was stumbling out of the doorway, obviously bandaged around her midsection, wearing loose sweatpants and a hospital type gown. Making room for her on the metal bench, she sat, nearly falling back, before cursing as the ice cold temperature of the bars easily soaked through the thin material she was wrapped in.

Yet, he couldn't find the strength to smirk.

"You know, I still don't understand half of what happened today. I didn't sign up for this…I'm Army, that was where I got my bearings, perfectly normal firefights. They should make this into a damn movie—Better yet, some video game. Can you imagine, kids down at the arcade, trying to simulate the hell we've been through today, with some little plastic controllers? Could fuck them up, for the rest of their lives. "

She was silent for a moment. He felt some remorse, for not responding. Joking didn't seem to fit in with the fabric of his life anymore.

"So? You sit out in the freezing cold for your health, or are you waiting for something? "

"You should be inside."

She was quiet after that, staring up at the sky, looking more awake than she should be. Hair pulled back, she looked like a tough woman, always, never letting her guard down. A true soldier. And apparently, that strength would be necessary. Sure, she had physical prowess, she could shoot a gun with the best of them. But how would she handle any news that came along?

They had survived. But how long would their mental states remain? Were they already deteriorating?

"So, what the hell do you think was up with that phone call? Seemed serious. I thought we would at least get a quiet weekend."

And so, the subject was brought up. He enjoyed letting his thoughts drift to other things. But Becket wasn't so lucky, not anymore.

"Apparently, the enemy isn't one that we're familiar with, not anymore. Whatever is going on, he said that I wouldn't believe him if he told me."

And suddenly, that usual thoughtful expression was illuminated on her face—The one that came up whenever she was trying to decide which restaurant to go to for lunch, or which firearm to use to take out the opposing side. She could crack any problem, any decision, any unsolved case. But this may prove to be a little more difficult.

"Is Alma involved?"

His body twitched at the name. Fear, no, wasn't fear. He really had lost his mind. _'Did she really want to be this way? Blood on those tiny feet.'_

"I'm positive she is, Lieutenant. He didn't say it outright, but I could see it in his eyes when I asked. She isn't the enemy, for whatever reason, this is something different. Though, I find it interesting that he brought up that technology that was found—what importance is it to us now? How could we harness it, to any advantage?"

"Call me Stokes, Becket. We've been on this team long enough now, been through enough. Always so fucking formal."

His words had gone largely unheard, or they were being ignored. But he had just opened a can of worms, and his head wouldn't stop trying to scream the answer. The breeze hit his uncovered face, tiny splatters of blood still speckling his skin and uniform. He realized suddenly how he'd love a change of clothes, a nice shave—funny, how the things that made him a human being were quickly going out the window. Maybe he was being made into a monster.

Maybe she had done it.

"I'm going inside. You sit out here and think for as long as you want. About puppies, or kittens, or whatever is in that head of yours." Standing, the woman gave him a quick glance before sliding open the glass door. "You did one hell of a job out there, Becket. Get some rest. Everyone else is out cold, and you did the most work. Try not to think about what's in store." She flashed a quick thumbs up, a smile meant to distract, before closing the door, without a sound.

He could have sworn he heard the absent voice.

Maybe she was begging.

'_Go easy on her. Please, she's just a kid.'_

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Unlike their friendly allies in the Army, and other branches of the military, the slightly less money conscious bigwigs at F.E.A.R didn't give them cots. They received fully sized beds, all in one large room for males, and another for females. Which meant the unfair advantage of Stokes getting an entire room all to herself—though, women were more partial about that kind of thing. Give men a bed, they sleep. There isn't too much to figure out.

Though, Becket realized that within the last twenty four hours, each person on the team had become a little more complex.

Morales was snoring, shaking the windows with every inhale, but that wasn't the reason that he couldn't find sleep. The clock flashed 6:43AM—Letting him know that seventeen more minutes were left between him, and the beginning of what could prove to be a more stressful day than he was prepared for. He had managed to cram in three hours of sleep, straight through, without any disturbance.

At least, any disturbance he could easily remember. She must have been in his subconscious, somewhere, at some point. But maybe she didn't want to be seen.

'_All units, report to Laboratory One at 7:00 sharp. I repeat…'_

A loud thump was heard as Morales, in the most ungraceful manner possible, fell out of bed with a loud groan, the ear piercing frequency of the intercom as potent as usual. Everyone had hit the tiled floor at least once, while in a peaceful slumber. It became part of life after a while—apparently, Morales wasn't used to it quite yet.

"That was best sleep I've ever had." Other mumbles were heard around the room, everyone awakening, and in various stages of awareness, some easily ready to go, others complaining about lack of coffee. Most were suiting up, talking about what could be happening—all in all, there were six men in the room, and Stoker would come along, giving them seven in all. But only three of them were fighters in the field, the others behind the scenes. The four new recruits would give them seven fighters, with which to use against the new threat.

Whatever that new threat could be.

Men were suited up easily—and, without hesitance, he could place Stoker in that category. She didn't think of herself as woman, really, Becket could see that much from the way she carried herself. She climbed the ladder through pure skill, not sex appeal. Hair tied back, pulling on a glove, she exited her room, meeting the men in the hall with a staunch 'Good Morning.'

"Your wound ain't botherin' ya, Stokes? Shit, you're tougher than we are, I'll give you that." One of the men from the weapons department quipped. Other laughed, as they made their way down the series of staircases, to the lab. To be honest, Becket wasn't sure how many people had been in the underground part of the facility—they usually didn't have reasons. Whatever new weapons they received were created there, and who knew what else. Their job was to fight, not to ponder what was beyond understanding.

Approaching the heavy metal doors, the hallway wide and spotlessly clean, they stopped, as the Commissioner stood before them, obviously without a wink of sleep. Clearing his throat, he gave a solemn good morning to the group, receiving a few back, along with some worried glances. Whatever was behind the door may be better left unknown.

Becket stood beside Stokes, while the others seemed to stay back. Something in the air wasn't right, it was cruel, it was heavy.

"Say, does anyone else feel damn tired all of a sudden?" Stokes asked suddenly, hand on her forehead, eyes squinted. "Maybe that isn't the right word. Does anyone else feel fucking depressed?" She glanced around, clearly agitated. "Maybe you need some new lighting down here. Harness some damn sunlight."

The others seemed to agree—But Becket didn't seem to be feeling the same thing. Something was odd, but that wasn't it. Maybe he was the odd one out.

It wouldn't be the first time.

The Commissioner wasn't himself. Becket knew that the average comeback to a quip like that would have been something along the lines of 'I'll put that in the suggestion box.' But today, he looked nervous. Downright scared. And this was a man who had been on the front lines of every conflict over the past thirty years.

"I'm going to introduce you to the new recruits. All three are from the U.S Army, best in their field. Go easy on 'em at first, they will have plenty of time to sharpen up out on the field."

The group followed him into the dark chamber, with obviously huge ceilings, and machines of every kind around—One in front of them, spherical, covered by a dark sheet, must have been thirty feet in diameter. Everyone seemed to have noticed it, but their gaze was immediately drawn to three men, standing before them. Their posture was that of perfectly trained soldiers, and they were nothing close to being scared and confused by their new environment. Each came forward, with their name, and rank, all well built, standing tall. Most wouldn't dare to pick a fight with them—But in this sector, they were dealing with beings who could care less about muscle mass.

"Harvey Barton, First Lieutenant. "

"Garrett Roberts, Major."

"Pierce Fadon, Captain."

They gave their salutes, and Becket felt his body mimic the movement before him, a habit as common to him as eating, breathing. Now, the atmosphere was beginning to take on what Stokes had spoken of—turning his head slightly to look at his partners, he could see that they had all taken on a new wariness. No anger was present, just a look of exhaustion.

"Welcome to F.E.A.R, you will be an asset to our team. Gentleman, stand with the ranks, please. Let's discuss a new part of our mission. You won't be going out on assignment today, the current situation doesn't allow for that. Briefings will take place over the next few days, time for all of you to become…acquainted, to the work ahead. To each other."

Stepping forward, Becket asked his question quickly, no sense of remorse. "Commissioner, you told us last night that there would be four new recruits added to the ranks."

The man sighed audibly, running a hand through his hair, his trademark hat missing, in what may have been panic, or forgetfulness from lack of rest. "Yes, well…I will explain that now. Before I do…" He stood before the men and woman, hands behind his back, head bowed. He gathered his thoughts, and spoke in a low tone, nearly a whisper. Each strained to hear him clearly.

"Before I continue, those with weak constitutions may want to leave. This is not only a warning for our new recruits." His gray eyes traveled over each one of them, trying to pick the weak out of the pack. "I would tell you to sit down, if there were chairs around. Hell, you may want to sit on the floor. Lord knows that last night, I didn't know it had already come so far." Biting his lip, Rodney stopped. "If you don't think you can handle any more shock to the system, leave."

You could hear a pin drop. Not one person moved.

"Very well, then." The Commissioners voice raised up only slightly more, as if he was afraid that he would be overheard. His gaze came to rest behind him, the faintest tremble through him. "I told you yesterday about the technology that was discovered in the wreckage. It could suppress…_her_ powers. Not fully, but enough to make her no longer such a powerful threat. Imagine, if we could use her power to our advantage. She can see into the minds of whomever she wishes, influence actions…Frightening, maybe, but not so much if she were on a leash." He seemed to stumble over the words, not mentioning a name—But there was no confusion as to whom he was speaking about.

One of the men, one that he knew to be the most vulgar and outspoken, laughed outright, startling everyone. "Damn right. I only saw the bitch once, but it scared the shit out of me. Was rounding a corner, and there she was. Looked up at me, I almost ran the fuck away. But before I could make a thought, she was gone. It ain't right, spirits and shit walkin' the earth. Ain't natural."

The Commissioner pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, slowly wiping the sweat from his brow. "Alma was discovered. In the wreckage."

There it was, that eerie silence.

"Alma is a ghost. A spirit." Becket interrupted, voice taking on a rare urgency, that he tried like hell to suppress. "What do you mean, she was found?"

"Alma is dead, but her body was somewhat preserved, in that amniotic fluid. Obviously, it had deteriorated to some extent, but it was still recognizable." He coughed, leaning against a nearby rail, the weariness seeming to affect him the most. "Two members of our cleanup team found out the hard way, who it was. They are currently in the infirmary."

Stokes looked up, shocked. "They aren't dead? Liquefied?"

The Commissioner glanced up at the wounded woman. "Correct. They had some deep wounds on their arms and back, and were babbling in some form of gibberish, but they are healing, it seems. Starting to speak coherently again."

Morales spoke up. "Get to the point, Rodney. Did they put a stake through her heart?"

The blonde haired soldier laughed, but everyone else was staring intently ahead. This was already too much. Becket was trying to calm his racing mind. "You found a body, but it was just a dead body, wasn't it?"

"The bigwigs gave the order to bring it back, dead body or not. They wanted to study it, see if they could discover anything of interest. So, they did that very thing. Brought it back, put it in their own amniotic fluid. Alma is around forty six years old, factually, but her body looks to be around age fifteen, or sixteen. They only meant to preserve it, do some X-rays, but…" He stopped, turning around, his back to the men.

It was a habit of the Commissioners, to avert his eyes when something huge was about to be announced. He feared what he would see in others eyes, maybe. Rejection, he didn't want to be the cause.

"They had that suppressor sent back here, first. It was inspected, tweaked…It took no time at all to get it up to par. It was a genius invention, it was just invented too late. So many of lives could have been saved, if it were implemented just a little earlier." He clenched the bar he was leaning against, speaking up. "Once they got the body back, those two men were attacked. The body hadn't moved, so they assumed it was her spirit, trying to stop us from moving it."

It was times like this, when Becket expected something to jump out of the shadows.

"They were measuring the psychic waves in the air, they were off the charts. Vials were starting to fly off the shelves; men were flying through the air. They had nothing to lose. They thought, maybe her body has something to do with all of this. And even if it didn't, it wouldn't hurt to put the suppressor onto her. They clamped it around her neck, and immediately, everything came to a halt."

There were a few gasps from the group, a few mumbles. "You've got to be kidding me, Rodney." Stokes had her mouth wide open, and Becket was no better, eyes as wide as they could be.

"That isn't the strangest part." He turned, looking at them again, sweat dripping down his brow. "The body didn't have a heartbeat when they brought it in, they made sure. But the second they clamped that thing around her neck, she took in one deep breath—apparently, the scream was loud enough to be heard throughout the entire facility."

Now, the panic came. "What, she is a fucking zombie now?" The blonde haired man spoke. "You've got to be shitting us, Rodney, how the fuck is that possible?"

The commissioner glanced over at the man, before walking over to the large black curtain containing the hulking machine that Becket had noticed when they entered the lab. "There are a lot of unexplained things in this line of work, Richards. You should know that by now. One last thing…That partially decomposed body? It is healing itself up, quite nicely."

With that, he tugged. The sound of cloth against cloth was heard, as it hit the hard concrete floor. Before them, was a huge tank. Becket stepped back, reminded of another place, too eerily familiar to another room he knew all too well.

Before the men, floating in the tank, was the girl they were constantly speaking of, running from, trying to point out with a flashlight. The Commissioner was correct—One of the legs was purple and black, one hand seeming too skeletal. Painfully thin, she was, but her hair was intact. Eyes closed, body naked in the fluid, metal ring around her lengthy neck. Yet, even in this unconsciousness, Becket felt a new panic. Not for his own life, he didn't feel threatened. The others were less enthusiastic—A few screams echoed through the chamber, the loudest from Stokes. Curses were heard, and the inevitable questions—"What the fuck?" "You've got to be kidding me." "I quit."—were discernable in the riot. But the only thing Becket could think, was far too selfless for his own good.

_'Get her out. She doesn't want to be there. She's been there for too long.'_

And she did look innocent, somehow alert, in that tank. Memories flashed, of Fox being liquefied, before his very eyes. Of the bloody footprints, of the taunting words of the tormented girl, now closer to being a woman. Yet even with these truths staring him in the face, he couldn't turn and walk out.

'_Help me.'_

The Commissioners voice rang out, a yell at first, to quiet the chatter. Once attention was had, he said the words that would change the company, forever.

"Alma Wade will be the fourth new recruit into the F.E.A.R team. I expect you will welcome her to the team, properly."

* * *

Interval One Complete, 100%

Coming soon,** Interval Two: Freedom Flight** – In which the fluid is drained, words are exchanged, jobs are lost, punches are thrown, pain is obvious, and understanding seems to be a lost virtue.


	3. Chapter 2: Freedom Fight

_**Tabula Rasa**_

**Interval Two**

**Freedom Flight**

A/N – A little strange, isn't it? Before I get any negative response, let me remind everyone—This is, quite obviously, a work of fiction. I love reviews, let me know what you like or don't like about the story. I enjoy writing it, I hope you enjoy reading it. Keep in mind, writing about Alma this way, her mannerisms, her reactions—It is going to be difficult. There isn't much to go on, but I'll do my best. Hopefully, you'll approve.

Now, let's find out what is to happen with our dear Alma, and the F.E.A.R team. This can't bode well, can it?

Enjoy, Tabula Rasa Interval Two. Let's see if you can get 100%.

* * *

Interval Two

Begin

"I'll put a fucking bullet in my head, before I work with that…_thing_. This is fucked up, Commissioner, just kill it already. Make sure it's dead this time, too, will ya? It's put us through enough hell. Remember those men you wanted to honor so badly? That's the thing that turned their flesh to liquid shit. Just get rid of it, or I walk."

The blonde was continuing on his rant, as he had been since the very real sight of Alma, floating in a tank, had been revealed. No one was listening to him, it seemed, as everyone was either caught in their own thoughts, or speaking themselves. Mumbling, of various degrees of intensity—Rodney looked slightly ashamed. Though, more than that was the panic visible in his wise eyes, fear that the being in the tank could overhear, and would react.

In the most violent way possible.

_'Stop calling her 'it' or 'thing'. She is a girl, a woman, not a monster. Not at first. She didn't ask for this.'_

Every moment that she had appeared to him was flashing through his mind. Fleetingly, Becket wondered if this was the sensation that human beings felt before facing inevitable demise. Life flashing before your eyes…Though, if this was his life, he needed to get out more. Or at least, stay in a house, have a wife and kids. Maybe it was too late; he had obviously jumped off the deep end, in some respects.

Walking down the hall of Wade Elementary, she had appeared to him. Becket had her in the crosshairs, a perfect shot. And before he could fire, she grabbed his arm, leaping through space. Her eyes were sunken, gone, her face warped, by time and madness, yet still holding a feminine spark, that couldn't leave. He had been held in the air then, as she screamed her confusion, her frustration, and she had asked him the question, in that heart stopping voice, the strange echo, devoid of any happiness.

_"Don't you see?" _

Again. This time, with a strange change in her voice. Sensuality, in its raw form. Her slender body not so painful to look at, body not waterlogged, not dead. Was she?

_"Don't you see me?" _

That was a point, that he would reveal, were the others not screaming and distracted. Alma had power beyond all comprehension, but the power she had wasn't selective. Becket must have some—or else, how could he see Alma, when she was only a spirit? Stokes couldn't see her, neither could quite a few men on the squad. His power hadn't developed into madness, though, and for that he was thankful. Imagining childhood, school, years that were supposed to be spent playing, growing, instead spent in a cold world of tests and prodding, of a cold tank, alone, in the dark…

Of course she was mad.

"What makes you think that she will just waltz out of that tank, with a smile on her face, and a handshake? For the love of God, you think she will be complacent? If you don't give a shit about your life, that's dandy, but bringing that thing in here? Die on your own, don't get us involved. Just end this. Don't just pull the plug this time, carve her up! Make sure she can't come back, send her straight to hell."

Glancing over, the blonde becoming irritating (despite any good points he may be making), Becket could see the new recruits, with some confusion on their faces. Yes, you can hear a scary story, and feel a shiver up your spine—but until you see the spirit, feel it firsthand, do you truly understand the meaning of fear?

"If you don't like it, take it to the president." The Commissioners voice still held a shake, but it also held the hint of authority that was needed. The panic was understandable, but maybe, he thought, it was being amplified by Almas presence.

Or maybe, he was just going to easy on the situation.

"She will be the ultimate source of knowledge for us. Think of what we can accomplish, just think of the possibilities! And you," the man in charge looked at the blonde, bringing his face close to the others, posture perfect. "If you want to walk, you go right ahead. But remember, you know way too much. If Aristide decides to get her hands on you, you may regret it." He turned, looking at the woman in the tank, and a very obvious shiver ran through his aged body. "I've got my doubts, too, you think this is easy? To let her out, knowing what she did to good men, to innocents?" His voice raised, he turned. "You think this is easy?"

This silenced the mumbles and complaints, in one swoop. Each one in uniform stared ahead, and paid attention, as if doing so would prevent any undue bloodshed.

"I know that this could backfire. Hell, that thought is in all of your minds, that she could just turn and kill us all. But I think we need to give this technology some credit." He bowed his head, eyes drifting shut. "And I think that this would be a good time to make right with the Lord. I'm not a religious man myself, but a few prayers couldn't hurt."

Some sighs, some nods, most relinquished their arguments. It was tense, as all eyes drifted to the still body above.

"My God, her leg. It's healed," Stokes said quietly, "look at it. This is dangerous, Commissioner…If she does lash out, what if we can't get in a good shot? It looks like if we shot her, she would just regenerate, somehow."

"You all are the best of the best. I trust that you would aim for the head, and hope for the best."

With a loud succession of stomps, the loudmouth blonde slammed the doors open, leaving the lab. No one looked surprised—In fact, each person looked like they could follow any moment. But the difference was, the ones left had _some_ faith. Maybe, if she did kill them, it was their time. Or maybe, the slight, less than one percent chance, that the being in the cold fluid would spare their lives.

That was what they needed to hope for, now. Much like other corporations, any employee complaints were widely ignored by the higher ups. Even when it _was_ a life and death situation, apparently.

"Let him go." Rodney seemed to want to follow, but as a man of principal and hard-work, he stayed, the closest to the tank. "It is understandable, that you felt odd, Stokes. You mentioned it when we came down here, you were very correct. Proximity to Alma has always resulted in such emotions, as told from reports we found with the device. The most common emotion is sadness, though, anger is not so farfetched. Try not to lose yourselves in it. Focus on something else, if you must, but giving in could be dangerous."

Everyone nodded, though the subdued motions didn't hold much confidence. Resist something, someone, who could destroy you with a thought? Though, maybe they were ignoring the metal ring around her neck, far too much. Maybe it was a beacon. Maybe she could be contained. The sadness weighed heavy in the room, and Becket couldn't help but wonder how it had felt, for a little girl to bring these thoughts from others. She couldn't control it. He could imagine, trying to get close to others, but only bringing out their very worst.

Was recruiting her the same mistake that had been made before? Using her? Were they no better than Harlan Wade? It seemed as though they were already treating her as a burden—but how did Alma feel? It was an unprecedented question, actually wondering what the thoughts were of the healing woman in the tank. She could see the thoughts of all around her, but no one could see hers. Not really fair, if you thought about it.

They had to be better. He would keep his eyes open, and find out exactly how, but Harlan Wade was dead and gone. Now, it was up to them, to try to reverse what he had done. Any power isn't inherently good or bad—it is what you decide to do with it.

"That is something that the suppressor can't do anything about. As for the things that she does purposefully, they seemed to stop, as I said. The reports make it seem like this machine is the ultimate weapon against her rage."

He couldn't stop his legs, as they carried him forward, up the few stairs, to stand before the tank, directly. The others mumbled his name, he heard footsteps, which quickly stopped, as he placed a hand on the glass, speaking loud enough for the others to hear. "She is healed. You can't tell at all that she was dead for so many years. She still has all the power she had before, obviously. Wouldn't you say, Commissioner?" Becket turned, eyes hard. For whatever reason, he wanted her out. Now that she was healed, what reason was there to keep her chained up? "If she is healed, maybe you should drain the tank. If you want to see what she can do, how she'll react, the only way is to revive her."

Stokes stepped forward, curious and weary eyes on Becket. It seemed that she was having the most trouble, dealing with the change in atmosphere. _'Not a good time to be a woman. Too emotional.'_

"I think…Becket is right, Rodney." She stared up at the dark tank, wrapping her arms around herself for a brief moment, fighting off a chill, and nodding. "We are putting her in the same situation that **made** her so angry in the first place. It's the most _terrifying_ fuckingthing I can imagine, but we need to… let her out. Things will only get worse if we don't. We are delaying the inevitable, Rodney. We can't put it off. She is healed up in there, no reason to sit here, sucking our thumbs."

Heads were bowed, fists were made, and jaws were clenched. Becket eyed the various wires stemming from the woman, monitors, the data proving that this wasn't a vision, not a dream. Men in a booth above, scientists, spoke through the intercom, obviously eavesdropping on their conversation.

"Commissioner, it is possible. Her heartbeat is finally stable—it had been going through periods of speeding and slowing. Interestingly enough, only a few moments ago, it seemed to have stabilized. And her body, it's extraordinary…For a body that has been dead for so long to have regenerated completely. The body didn't decompose as badly, because it was kept in the fluid—however, this is unheard of in science. Of course, regeneration at all is incredible, but…This is revolutionary."

The comments being made were of fascinated children being given a new toy. Becket spoke up, glancing up at the small room. "Can you let her out?"

One of the men cleared his throat, slightly embarrassed from his excited tirade, and nodded. "Yes, but she hasn't been given many nutrients, not yet. She will be weak. No putting her to work yet, Commissioner, you hear? She is a powerful psychic, but let's keep in mind, she is in a human body now. She will have some limitations, one would think."

Rodney looked up, eyes hiding some agitation. "Yes, you would think. But none of us have ever spoken to this woman; we only know what we read, what we have seen her do to our own men, and what we hear in reports. She may be weak, or she may be inhumanly strong. All you can do is drain this fluid, so that we may find out." He nodded.

"Do it."

The scientists held some obvious hesitation, but after a few quietly spoken words, some buttons were pushed, the sirens began to alarm in the lab, telling others to step away, as the fluid slowly, very slowly, began to drip out of the tank. Red lights flashed, and at once, it seemed that the heavy atmosphere became more intense. Memories began to surface, as Alma became closer to freedom.

Stokes clearly saw the moment in her eyes, Griffin being pulled apart, disintegrated, before her very eyes.

_'Just get out of here!'_

_She couldn't see Alma, but Stokes knew she was there. All she could easy see was Griffin, standing strong, gun in his hand, a powerhouse, and a jokester—and in the next moment, his skin was gone, blood was spattered on the ground, and his bones lay below her. One moment, he was joking, giving his positive outlook, and the next, he was gone, in less than a blink. She couldn't scream, couldn't run. Her job wasn't done. But the sheer terror, of an invisible enemy, able to do such things…Inexpressible fear. Becket could sense her, she could tell. Maybe he could avoid her, but for Stokes, she was fighting in the dark. And how did you calm one who was made of anger, of hate, of rage? _

_How could she fix it? How could anyone fix it?_

The woman was falling, with the lack of fluid, floating to the bottom of the glass holding tank, face with no expression, yet her effect telling otherwise. The hurt, the pain, the fear, the anger, was all palpable. Becket would never give in—He could feel it, but it didn't bring out his personal emotions. Stokes had trouble dealing with the onslaught, while the other men showed no emotion. Covering her mouth, Stokes, slammed her eyes shut, leaning against a wall for support.

"Stokes, hold it together." The Commissioner walked over, hand on the womans shoulder. "Try to be strong. You may get used to it, just try to concentrate on something else. Concentrate on your favorite beer, a weekend in your hometown, at that bar you like. Come on."

The woman soldiers skin was clammy, as she pried her eyes open, to stare at the now near empty tank. Two of the new recruits took steps back, hand on the weapons at their hips, ready for some kind of confrontation.

"Her psychic waves are somewhat stable…A few spikes here and there." One of the scientists ran a hand through his hair, displaying obvious fatigue.

The tank empty, a panel on the side serving as a door, one of the men trampled down the stairs, purely exhausted, eyes glazed. Stopping before he entered, he glanced up, as if looking to God for hope, before stepping one foot in, making sure not to slip on the residue. Slowly, he began removing the many needles and monitors from Alma, having a reaction as if burned with every brush of his hands against her skin.

Unexpectedly, with the first removal of the needle from her neck, the body below him twitched, small noise emitting from the psychics throat.

The man looked to jump about ten feet in the air, containing any noise, but putting a hand over his heart, short brown hair glistening with sweat.

The commissioner peered through the glass. "Perkins, for God's sake, pull yourself together. If you panic, she will draw on that emotion. You need to try to stay positive, no matter the circumstance."

The man rolled his eyes. "Oh, yes, stay confident…" Realizing he was still being stared at, he nodded, gulp audible. "Yes, Sir."

Rodney turned back to the soldiers in wait. "I have some documentation of Alma that I will disclose to you later. Usually, files aren't to be shared openly, however…This is a special case, wouldn't you agree? It may help you in the long run. Some nasty shit, I wouldn't recommend reading it at the dinner table. Really terrible stuff. " A shudder ran through the man, as his eyes gazed off into nothing—Stokes was leaning against the wall, wondering if she should read the file or not. Enough of the pain was seeping into her now, enough to make her want to bash her fist through the metal wall behind her.

Lab coat shielding him from the woman, Perkins stood, taking a step back, and rubbing his face with his hands, signaling for the other man to come down, with a towel and blanket. "We can get her dressed after we get her out of here. We need to clean her up a bit, though she may not react well to strangers being so close to her when she wakes up, you think?"

Manny shrugged his shoulders, having been quiet the entire time. "She looks to be out cold. Really can't stand this atmosphere, though, it's too damn intense." Looking at the woman, limp on the floor of the tank, he bit his lip, ignoring the nearby signs, and taking out a cigarette, putting it between his lips, and fighting with the lighter for a moment before the stick ignited. "It's fucking sad, if you ask me." He glanced around. "But she killed our men. I can't forgive it."

The other scientists entered the tank, looking lost. He obviously didn't want to touch Alma, whether she be nude, or not—And, the other wasn't going to do it either. The proximity must have been getting to them. However, with the Commissioners bark, Perkins was the one to pick her up, sliding his arms underneath her, eyes clenched shut, face pulled away, as if waiting to be skinned alive. Becket almost smiled—the guy was shaking like a leaf, as his assistant wiped Alma off slightly, before placing the blanket over her, walking with jelly-like legs to where the others stood.

Her eyes shut, dark circles visible underneath, hair falling limply around her pale skin, emaciated and weak, it was hard to picture her as being a murderer, in any light. Yet, all the soldiers had seen her power, walked in fear of it.

"So, she's out. What do we do? We can't just throw cold water on her, slap her until she wakes up. Well, we could, but I don't think any of us are really looking to die."

Stokes stepped forward. "I'm wondering…She is psychically attuned to Sergeant Becket. Maybe if he did something, it would have more of an effect? Then again, that thing around her neck may be blocking the connection, I'm not sure."

The metallic doors barged open, with a loud bang, and in walked the blonde haired soldier who had left before. Maybe coming into reconcile, or to just start more trouble, he paused when he saw the display before him—Alma, out of the tank, in a scientists arms, with no restraints. Growling, he pointed. "What the fuck is this?"

"Sergeant Rayner, I was taking your leave as permanent, once you left the laboratory. We will not discontinue this project, just because you disapprove."

The man scowled, skulking forward, towards the woman lying limp in the man's arms. He stared down at her, blue eyes taking on a cruel hue—Becket took one step forward, braced for whatever would happen. Then again, Rayner could be gone in an instant. His puny gun couldn't do much in the face of this power, and he wasn't sure if he could shoot her either way.

'_Shoot a woman? No. There has to be some other way.'_

With one swoop, Rayner reached down, gloved hand gripping the tan blanket, and pulling it off, letting it fall to the ground beside him. "Well, she has a body on her. Though, I don't know if I'd want to take the risk…She was dead, right? Fucking monster. Trapped in that tank for so long, probably never got a decent fuck. I could do the honors."

The Commissioner angrily stepped forward, face red, eyes blazing. "Sergeant, hold your tongue. I won't hear remarks like that, not from my own men." The other men looked slightly angered, and Stokes was seething—whether from the remark, or the waves of emotion sweeping off of Alma, it wasn't known. Becket was having his own difficulties with holding back. He wasn't known for losing his temper, but hell, maybe his own emotions were being amplified more than he thought.

The blonde continued. "I don't see a problem. It's a pity. She was just too fucked up, isn't that right?" He reached out, touching the woman's cheek with his hand—more footsteps were heard, towards the scene, instead of away. Rayner laughed. "What you think she is going to wake up and get me? This ain't the boogieman." He looked down, taking in every inch of the unconscious psychic. "Never fucked, but had two kids." He sighed, rolling his eyes. "So, I guess she ain't totally a virgin. Imagine how fucked up the kids were! She probably would have killed them, like some animal. They were smart, to take the babies away from her."

The room became unbearably quiet. Becket could see the flashes, though he wondered if any of the others could, given the proximity. Maybe not. Maybe he was still the chosen victim. Yellow tint, dizziness—But not the same malice. No, maybe she was angry, but she could do nothing. That machine, it was having an effect. The others may not have been sold, but he was positive. It had to be that way.

'_Helpless?'_

Eyes opened slowly, maybe no one noticed. He focused on them—They were a deep shade of green. The yellow he had seen before, maybe that was an emission of her power. No, they weren't yellow now, nor were they holes falling deep into her skull. Against her pale skin, they were too alive. But they were tired. Exhausted. Frightened, of something that they couldn't see.

One arm, dangling down, limp and unmoving, snapped up, gripping the blondes forearm, as eyes moved to look up at him, wide, unpredictable, insane.

And with that, the blonde's foolishness, Alma awoke.

Her mouth opened, as if to speak—However, no sound came out, except for a tiny gasp. She abruptly shut it, her long black hair falling around her pale face.

The blonde cursed out loud at the hand on his arm, the cold skin sending a chill down his spine, along with the unfamiliar emotions spreading through him. He stood his ground, though he could have easily broken out of the girls grasp. Seeing her attempt to talk, he laughed outright. "What is it? Do you have something to say? Go on, I can't wait."

Silence. The tense atmosphere in the room could be cut with a knife, and each soldier held their breath in waiting. After a few moments, Alma's voice was heard.

She was heard telepathically, in the minds of each person in the dark laboratory.

'_You have my babies? Where are my babies?' _

The blonde flinched at the sensation of a voice in his head—less of a reaction than was had by Stokes, who responded with a sharp gasp, while the others jumped, as if watching a scary movie. The Commissioner stood by, ready to jump in at a sign of trouble. Worst of all, the man carrying Alma was shuddering so hard, that Alma's body shook with him, his eyes wide as saucers, praying that he could get out of the line of fire quick enough to escape with his life.

"I don't have your babies. I couldn't tell you where they are." He leaned down, face closer to hers. "Maybe they are six feet under. I can make sure you join 'em, for good."

The words had an effect. Alma twitched violently, body moving in a strange formation, and Perkins had no hope of holding on to her. She landed on her feet, but couldn't maintain the pose, body too weak—She fell to her knees, looking up at the man.

There was the yellow, the tint that Becket could remember. Stepping forward, he spoke, in a harsh whisper. "Rayner, back off. She—"

The renegade soldier met his gaze. "She what?" He crossed his arms, gazing down at Alma. "Go ahead, do your worst. It won't matter. You'll kill all of us, won't you? We ain't got a chance in hell." With outstretched arms, he stood, prepared for his skin to be gone, for his life to evaporate in one quick motion from the body below him.

The fury radiating off of Alma was palpable. Stokes clenched her fists, leaning against the wall. "Damn it…" She kept her eyes on the situation, wondering whether or not to run. This was the end, wasn't it? Had they been at fault?

Greed leads to one's own demise. She would have to remember that, in the next world.

The new recruits looked unsure. 'Better than being terrified,' Becket thought. Heartbeats were quickened, sweat dripped down their skin, and then, it came—That feeling of being swept away. The feeling that came before Fox had been killed, Griffin, that moment before cells were broken down, before a human life was ended in the most inhumane, most impossible of ways. Stepping back, he waited to see the terrifying outcome—He could vaguely hear the Commissioner screaming out 'Rayner!', and said a small prayer for the man's guidance.

A heart piercing scream.

All eyes became glued to the woman, now writhing on the floor, hands on her head, eyes clenched shut. No one seemed to move—least of all, Rayner, who seemed to have his life spared. After a few terrifying moments of screams so heart wrenching, the Commissioner shoved Rayner out of the way, reaching down to pull the woman into a sitting position. "Call Avery, tell him to get down here to take her to the infirmary." Manny was the first to respond, seeming almost unable to take his wide eyes off of the 'demon' before them, the pitiful sight, unexpected, and raising so many new questions. "Yes, Sir."

Alma coughed, and with it came blood. Her fingertips came to her mouth, body trembling , as she looked at the red liquid coating her skin. She looked around, eyes tired, trying to find an answer. She looked at the Commissioner, raising her hand, cocking her head to the side in question. Once again, her voice rang out, not only in the mind of one, but in the minds of all in proximity—Perhaps something she could not yet control in her state, or maybe the machines fault.

'_What did you do?'_

The voice in their minds wasn't angry, it wasn't resentful. It was the voice of a confused girl, tired from her ordeals. The question was unexpected, in itself. Her gaze turned to the large glass holding tank, once holding the fluid she had healed in, but also the fluid that had been her only company for so many years. Body thrashing, she shook her head,

'Don't put me there, don't put me there, don't put me there!' There was the rageful voice, the scream, the orders, that would usually be accompanied with bloodshed. Yet, it stopped abruptly, as her mouth opened in a silent scream, hand coming to rest on the metal contraption around her neck.

Her eyes wandered, until she stopped, dead, on Becket. Eyes widened, the yellow gone, once again, as she reached a painfully thin arm out, towards the quiet soldier.

'_I shouldn't be here. Please, kill me. Please, let me die!' _Her voice was overlapping, one the sound of the woman before them, hardened and wounded--while the other voice was the sound of a young girl, in her prime, a child who should have been enjoying playing with other children, and smiling each moment. That was the most difficult, obviously. The team hearing the plea winced, Stokes rubbing her arms, biting her lip. The words were so blunt, it was hard to ignore.

'_Don't let me sleep, don't...' _Her eyes went wide, and there was a call from one of the scientists above, who had run back to the booth. "Her psychic energy if off the charts, but...It's fading fast. Something isn't right."

_Anything but--' _Her eyes snapped shut, body falling limp, with one last piercing sound from her throat. The Commissioner looked down at the woman, heart beating against his ribs. Avery burst through the door, pulling a stretcher behind him, along with Manny, who surveyed the somber scene.

"Avery, take her. Everyone else…Follow me. Excluding you, Rayner." He looked at the man. "Get the fuck out of my sight." Beckoning the others to follow, some seeming in a trance, some still staring at the woman now on the gurney, he knew that this may have been a mistake.

But they were too far in. Failure was no longer an option. The beast had awoken—Or, perhaps, the beast was someone else all together.

* * *

Interval Two Complete, 100%

Coming soon, Interval Three: Hidden Knowing – In which Alma's past is revealed in more shocking and terrifying details, the woman herself walks the halls of F.E.A.R Headquarters, and the uniform is worn by the unlikely recruit.

A/N – This chapter seems choppy, but my mind is currently being pulled in a million different directions…The next chapter will be more powerful, I promise. Until then, take from this what you can. Thank you for reading. And thank you, for those who have reviewed! I will rewrite this chapter, with more substance, once I have the proper amount of time to do so. Enjoy!


	4. Chapter 3: Hidden Knowing

_**Tabula Rasa  
**_

**Interval Three  
**

**Hidden Knowing  
**

A/N – Well, it has been a roller coaster so far, hasn't it? Alma is out of the tank, and everyone is confused, or panicking. Actually, some of them may be worried, too. After all, Alma isn't quite how they pictured she would be, right?

This chapter contains **violence, slight sexual situations, and disturbing scenes**. Discretion is advised, read at your own risk.

Now, let's find out a little bit more about Alma, shall we? Enjoy Tabula Rasa, Interval Three.

* * *

Interval Three

Begin

Alma was pushed away on the gurney, body limp, unresponsive—In a way, the team was in the same condition. There was no talking as they followed the Commissioner, each in their own world, shocked by what had occurred. Seeing the woman floating in the tank, it was like a painting. They weren't in full belief that what they saw with their own eyes was indeed the frightening specter of the past few days. However, seeing her in the flesh, seeing her move, animate, and most of all, hearing her voice in their own minds, seemed to have been the wakeup call they needed.

Alma was real, flesh and blood. She could feel, she could communicate. And she was in the building.

In a way, this illuminated some fear. After all, when running from something you can't see, luck isn't on your side. At least now, if she was the evil being that she had been made out to be, they could track her. She was no longer just a figment of their imagination.

Becket was, not surprisingly, the most quiet of all. Her eyes, they had burned themselves into his mind, once again. But not in the same way. No, not the same at all. Before, wandering through the halls of the hospital, or through the Elementary school, icy grip on his heart, he could see her, out of the corner of his eye, those cryptic whispers in his ear. He could feel her breath on him then, even when she was only a spirit. She would grip onto his gun, onto his arm, pleading for something—but what? How could he put her out of her misery? What was he to do? And how did it become his responsibility?

Why him?

Stokes seemed to be recovering her wits somewhat, the further she got from the psychic. She glanced up at Becket, a look of disbelief still in her eyes. "This is…fucked up." She ran a hand through her hair, letting out a shaky sigh. "What are we supposed to do…? She isn't in any condition to be…" She trailed off, as they entered the conference room once again, all taking their seats. Some put their hands together on the table, some leaned back in the chairs, eyes on the ceiling. The Commissioner once again took his place at the head of the table, sitting, and sighing out his exhaustion.

"There is…much to discuss. Knowledge is the best weapon in this case. The only way to know how to deal with her is to educate ourselves as much as possible about her past, and what was meant to be her future."

He pressed a button on a control panel set into the table, a television screen coming down. "This is quite a bit to take in, I understand. How many of you are still feeling effects?"

Stokes was sitting the closest, sitting back in the chair, arms crossed, eyes closed. Hearing the question, she shivered, leaning her head back, and whispering an expletive or two. "I've never felt anything like it, Rodney. Not even while we were out fighting, not when I was close to her before. It's indescribable." She paused, and let out a cynical chuckle, putting her head in her hands. "In life, you always meet people who are depressed. People who are depressed about…trivial shit, you know? A bad hairdo, or losing a few hundred gambling. Things that can be fixed." She paused. "This wasn't the same. This was pain, this was horror, this was fear, to the deepest level. This was something so complete, something that permeated every cell. I can't…"

She glanced around at the new recruits, nodding over to them. "Did you all feel anything? You were pretty calm, given the situation. You guys really are the best of the best in your field, if that didn't fuck you up, just a little bit."

The man who had earlier introduced himself as Pierce sat quietly, his head shaking back and forth slowly, disbelief showing in his every movement. "I've been on the front lines of war, Lieutenant Stokes. I've been in the rooms of young victims, who have been tortured and murdered, with their families in the next room. I've seen floors and ceilings covered in blood of innocents. I've felt the pure fear and agony permeating off of the walls." His fists clenched on the table, and his ocean blue eyes flashed with a newly found protectiveness.

"None of that could compare to the emotion wafting off of that woman. This is pain; this is torment, to a level I have never seen. I don't know how to react; I don't know how to be of aid. How can we, soldiers, ones trained to harm, to kill, calm this spirit?" His voice had risen in intensity, and he bowed his head, silently asking forgiveness. "It is unheard of, that power. In my twenty years with the Army, I have never dealt with anything of this magnitude." He laughed quietly. "If we were to show a picture of this 'Alma' to other soldiers, they would laugh. It takes proximity to understand. After all, she looks no different from other women."

"Maybe a little thinner," Garrett quipped, "and, you know, are we going too easy on this broad? She ain't innocent, she did a number on your team, Commissioner."

Rodney was shuffling through files, not glancing up at the remark. "Like I said, we need to understand all we can. It ain't our place to judge, not until we know the facts." Stokes was about to speak up at that claim, but his hand silenced her. "I ain't a big fan of home movies either, but…Hell, this could be interesting." He brought out a metal box, obviously tampered with, revealing tape after tape, both video and audio. "This was Harlan Wades. All the information we could ever need, and more. Discovered with that device."

Manny raised his hand from the back, desperate to lighten the mood, to some degree. "Sir, I'm thinking that refreshments are in order? It's too early."

There were a few chuckles, not taking much to twist the Commissioners arm—he quickly ordered in coffee for each member of the team, who graciously accepted. Becket felt the burn against his tongue, but it did nothing to break him out of the semi-daze that he was trapped in. It was too much.

This was all way too much. They were normal people—Could they handle what they could possibly see and hear in this conference room? No matter what atrocities Alma had committed, could they really stand to see a little girl in pain? Were they that hardened, as soldiers?

Snake fist had called Alma 'the mother of the apocalypse.' It was hard to call that a stretch, given what they had seen—but either way, if she was what he described, she couldn't have always been that way. Was evil born, or was it created? It was the obvious, always argued point of Nature versus Nurture. And now, it was time to find out what they could. Becket clenched his fist, wondering what Alma was seeing, and feeling, in the infirmary. Could she read their minds in her state? Did they know what they would see, what they would hear?

"Now that you're all properly awake," the Commissioner started, daring to force a small smile, without much heart, "we will start at the beginning. Some of these tapes are labeled, some not…They seem to be in a certain order, here…" He removed one of the tapes, slipping into the proper slot, and glancing up at the television screen. The lights in the room dimmed accordingly.

After a few moments of static, the video popped up on screen. It was a home video, as was made obvious by the shaky camera—It soon focused on a baby, not a year old, in a white crib, surrounded by stuffed animals, bears and rabbits. Two voices spoke quietly, as the baby was sleeping.

"Isn't she beautiful? She has her mother's eyes."

"Well, she has her father's nose. And, who knows, maybe she has his brains, too."

The camera moved, to zoom in on a woman, maybe in her late twenties, early thirties, then turned to focus on a man, also young. After a moment of contemplation, it was easy to spot that this was a young Harlan Wade.

"Video Diary One. Alma is 36 weeks old, healthy. Actually…" He smiled wide, before he returned the camera to the sleeping child. "She is asleep now, but usually, she is smiling every second. Except…" The voice stopped, and the camera became unusually still. The womans voice intervened. "Honey, all babies have their fears. She will be fine, part of growing up. But you're right, she is always smiling, isn't she?"

As this was said, the small baby girl opened her eyes, and seeing her parents above her, she smiled, toothless grin as beautiful as most children. However, after a moment, her face contorted into one of sadness, eyes tearing up. Emitting the usual babies cry from her mouth, she squirmed, arms reaching upwards. Her supposed mother picked her up gently, cradling her to her chest. Her face was worried, but she put on a smile, looking into the camera. "Diaper change, I bet." She walked out of the room, and the camera turned, Harlan Wade gazing into the lens.

"Lord, I hope it's nothing…I hope Margarete is right. I have a bad feeling. Alma is my world. I will get to the bottom of this. " He smiled. "End Video Diary one."

The tape fizzled for a moment, another recording right behind it. Becket shook his head, a reaction to the tape. The little baby in the crib, that was Alma. That was the woman who had torn men limb from limb. Stokes was having the same reaction, mouth slightly open, eyebrows slightly furrowed, not in anger, not in any condescending or disbelieving behavior—But in concern, perhaps for the little baby girl. Maybe it brought out her motherly side, he thought; That protective side that all women have. Yet, the men in the room seemed equally concerned about the nine month old Alma.

It was funny, how quickly hatred and mistrust could change, when faced with such an innocent scene.

As the tape resumed, Alma was already quite a bit older—She was sitting up in a highchair, but it was impossible to mistake her. Her hair had grown, the same midnight black as it was now, and her eyes were wide and green, staring straight ahead, at the playful request from her father.

"Alma! Look over here, sweetie, look at Daddy."

The little girl focused on him, smiling wide, waving her hand at the camera. In one word, she was simply adorable—The kind of little girl that every group of parents wanted. Women always gawked at little kids like that, with the dimples and matching outfits. Stokes smiled a tiny smile, but Becket doubted she noticed.

"What did you just say, Alma? Say it again, for me? Mama heard it, but say it for me?"

There was a silence, as the little girl looked to be thinking hard, before blurting out the word, loudly. "Papa!"

Letting out a small laugh, the camera was placed down on a hard surface, before Harlan ran into the shot, embracing Alma. A yell of 'I told you!' came from further away, and the father nodded, gazing down at his daughter, both hands on her face. After a moment of silence, the little girl opened her mouth again.

"Help."

The word came from her lips as clear as day, no question as to what she had uttered. Harlan's face fell, and his eyes were wide. He didn't look away from the little girl's face, which had also fallen to display the same frown, to yell to the other room. "Honey, has Alma been watching television? I strictly forbid it, I hope she hasn't." However, he displayed that hope that perhaps she had heard the word from a movie or children's program, at the very least.

"No, Harlan, not one ounce of television. She has been listening to music, no television, you know that. I wouldn't allow her to see any of that."

The man nodded his head, and looked down at the little girl, who opened her mouth for a third time, voice just as serene and childlike as it had been before.

"Help, Papa."

Harlan Wade, wearing a button up shirt, and a lab coat, looking as professional as he did in his later years, placed a hand over his mouth, horror showing in every involuntary twitch of his body, in every shudder. He embraced the small girl again, who this time raised her tiny arms to clutch her father's white jacket, grasp tight and unrelenting.

The tape cut off after a few moments, leaving the conference room in silence.

The only female soldier in the room had her hand over her mouth, nearly mimicking Harlan Wade, her eyes wide. Becket was horrified himself—though, the new recruits, especially the blonde, looked to be particularly angered.

She wasn't a cruel little child, harming animals or throwing tantrums. She looked to be well behaved, happy—Yet, the latter could be argued. Pierce spoke up, glancing at the Commissioner.

"I have a daughter. She'll be four in two weeks—I can't imagine it. I can't imagine hearing my little girl, my little Allison…" He stopped, shaking his head. "I don't know too much about this Alma. All I know is, that is a little girl, who hadn't hurt anyone. And that is a father who seems to care about his daughter. That much, I can tell you."

Stokes nodded her head. "This isn't what I expected, Commissioner. Not one bit. I expected her to be…starting fires and cursing her parents. This is…" She nodded over to the box. "There is more?"

Rodney was quiet, for a minute, staring straight ahead. He realized he was being spoken to, and twitched in recognition. "Yes, there is much more…The next is a voice recording, though, by Harlan Wade. This wasn't too long after this incident." He shook his head. "I had kids too, and I can't imagine it. That is misery, not being able to find out what's wrong. Not bein' able to help your own child."

Pulling out the small audio tape, he put it in and pressed play, leaning back in his chair, and closing his eyes. The others tried to compose themselves, and Becket leaned forward, hands clasped together. He prayed that Alma wasn't listening, wasn't aware. They were, after all, intruding on private matters.

The tape began, Harlan Wade speaking in a sullen voice.

"This is Harlan Wade, and I…" The pause on the tape seemed to last forever, only white noise filling the room. "I don't want to hurt Alma. I don't want to intrude on her; I don't want to make her out to be an experiment. But something is wrong, something is _very_ wrong. Alma isn't…She isn't normal, she is something else. She is my world; she is my livelihood, but there something in those eyes that I can't explain." A cough, a deep sigh, filled with foreboding. "She is happy when she listens to music, more so than anything. But she refuses to sleep. Doctors don't know what to do, aside from drug her, and I won't allow that. I won't allow it. _I can't_." Though the man speaking couldn't be seen, the agony was palpable enough. "She doesn't nap; we cut that out of the day. It doesn't seem to make her grouchy. But when we put her to sleep at night, she thrashes. She thrashes and kicks, until she is totally exhausted. But even then, she won't close her eyes. She keeps them wide open. The room…The room, it _shakes_."

A sob came through the speakers.

"She falls asleep. And when she does, it seems to be directly into REM. Yet, the screams, the _screams_!" A pained grunt emitted from the scientists throat, sounding mad, and Becket winced, a few men in the room bowing their heads, eyes clenched shut. "My little girl…I watch her thrash, I watch her cry, and those screams, they last for hours. Hours and _hours_! Things have flown through the room, mirrors have cracked right down the middle during these tantrums, things I have never seen. She is suffering too much... When she wakes, she can't even cry, her throat is destroyed. She is exhausted, she is past her limit. My wife doesn't know what to do, either, she can't see what I see in Alma. " Harlan's voice grew quiet, as he obviously tried to suppress any more emotion. "Maybe it's wrong to experiment, to put her through this…But I have to know what's wrong, I have to know what she is seeing, what she is thinking. I have to help my daughter, my Alma."

The tape stopped.

Becket listened in spellbound horror, as Harlan Wade, the monster himself, spoke in hurried words into the microphone. With no images before them, each member of the team was left to their own imagination—To see a little girl in agony, afraid of shutting her eyes. The mystery was only growing by the second; it seemed that Alma was no longer the number one enemy, but instead, the number one curiosity.

"Can we really forget her sins?" Manny spoke up, eyes on the ceiling, ignoring the gazes on him. "Yes, knowing this seems to put things into perspective, but…does this mean forgiveness? I don't know if I can forget it."

Becket spoke up at this, voice quiet, as if afraid to interrupt the still atmosphere of the room. "I don't know if it's all about forgiveness, Manny. We don't have to forgive her for what she did, Lord knows we couldn't. I think, though, that knowing what we are learning now, we are supposed to give her a chance. A chance to help us now."

Stokes watched as Becket spoke, surprised by the poise in his words. She laughed slightly, nodding, leaning against her hand. "Yeah, Manny. Shit, we can't just look the other way. We can't pretend that she didn't murder our teammates in cold blood." She shivered, obviously holding back a few more choice words. "That's imprinted in our memories, for the rest of our lives, you know? We won't forgive, or forget. But we also won't throw her out on the street. At least, not until she screws up. Then, we fire at will. Ain't that right, Commissioner?"

Rodney took a moment to speak up. "I think…we need to mourn this child." He shook his head. "Imagining what that was like for a father…I'm not thinking of the terrifying, heartless things that woman has done. Right now, I'm watching, and listening, and doing my best to understand. I hate to say that things will probably get worse quick."

Pierce spoke up. "I agree. We have plenty of time to judge later—though, it ain't our place to judge. We can just call her crazy, we can call her a fuckin' psychopath for doing what she's done, but it's for God to decide, whether she can be forgiven. Let's just try not to let our anger get the best of us."

Everyone nodded in agreement. Though, keeping ones anger in check was difficult, around the psychic. But, hey—It was worth a try.

After a moment, Pierce spoke up again. "This makes sense, then. Back in the lab, before she collapsed, she said 'Don't let me sleep.' I wonder, when she is totally unconscious, can she still…" He trailed off. Rodney spoke up, voice taking on it's usual authoritative aura.

"We know that in her unconscious state, trapped underground in the Vault, she was able to control Paxton Fettels actions. If that could happen, I imagine that she can dream in that state too. Hell, she can probably still see everything around her, and with her psychic power, she can affect the outside world."

Becket glanced up. "I think that's true, though now, that thing around her neck…Well, in usual circumstances, she would be acting out against us invading her privacy like this. That machine is working."

Ignoring the Sergeants use of the word 'usual', Rodney nodded his head. "I agree. We have already been very lucky. That bastard Rayner almost jeopardized everything, with that little show back there. I could tell that she was about to do to him what she did to Griffin, and the others. She was about to melt the skin right off his body, but…" The piercing scream was embedded in his memory, and he shook his head. "That machine is doing its job, that's for sure."

The female Lieutenant glanced up. "What's next, Rodney?"

Glancing into the box, he gripped another video. "Let's find out. Anyone who wants to leave? That last one was a little tough, especially for you, Captain." He looked at Pierce. "This isn't your daughter, don't forget. Your daughter is safe at home. She won't have to go through this."

Pierce nodded, letting out a shaky breath. "Thank the Lord for that."

Placing the tape into the proper place, he sat back, ready to gaze at whatever new horror would show itself on the flat screen.

The same shaky home video. This time, they were in a car, and the lens pointed out a window, at the scenery flying past. It was a large lake, beautiful fir trees—obviously the nearby countryside, during summertime. The camera first panned past the driver, who was a male, judging by the color and cut of his hair, and the suit jacket he wore. It was a large car, expansive—And as the camera continued a semi stable turn, it stopped on the little girl. She was now older, maybe four or five years old, her hair coming nearly to her shoulders, straight and jet black. She wore a white shirt, with some kind of flower print, skin nearly as pale as the fabric.

Becket could remember being in Aristides apartment, meeting with her. The world had gone funny, foggy, out of control--And as he ran out, trying to get his bearings, trying to understand, he had seen her, running with him, through the halls. She was playful, then, not murderous. It was one moment when he wondered if she was truly capable of such horrific crimes.

"Alma, look over here."

As the little girl turned, she was undeniably cute, with childlike features, soft and sweet. However, something was obviously off—Starting with the dark circles under her green eyes, and overall exhausted appearance. One would think that someone looking like this would snap, would push the camera away. Yet…

She waved at the camera, smiling, flashing a peace sign. There was no force; there was no sarcasm in the action. It was pure. It was genuine. As most children's actions were.

"Alma, let me ask you a question." The little girl nodded at Harlan's statement, smile still on her tired face. "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

The young girl cocked her head to the side, in truthful thought. Becket was in shock, looking at the normal little girl, as were the others—He heard Pierce say 'She looks just like Allison. She looks like my little girl.'

"Well…" Alma started, her voice surprisingly energetic. "At first, I wanted to be a singer."

Harlan laughed behind the camera. "A singer?" He crossed his arms, looking throughful, finally nodding his head in approval. "That's my daughter, growing up just like her Dad." There was a pause. "You said 'at first'. You've changed your mind?"

Alma nodded her head, caught in a stare. She shook her head, making a humming noise, and looked back at the camera. "Well, I really do want to be a singer, Papa." She got up on her knees on the seat, pretending to hold a microphone in her hand. "I want to make people happy with my singing. The world needs to be happy." She smiled wide, missing her two front teeth, and stretching her arms out. Stokes laughed quietly, shaking her head. She moved closer to the camera, whispering playfully. "Do you know what I want?"

"What do you want, sweetie?"

The little girl had a blush on her face, and she whispered, embarrassed. "I want to get married!" She covered her mouth, laughing to herself. "And, I want to be a mommy." Reaching into the seat beside her, she pulled out a baby doll, dressed in a little red dress, holding in both hands, mimicking how a mother would hold her child.

Harlan laughed. "What do you want to wear on your wedding day, Alma?"

The little girl put a finger to her chin, eyes gazing upwards. "A long white dress. With frills! And I want flowers everywhere!" She giggled, smile lighting up the world. She wasn't bad spirited. She didn't want to hurt people. Because children were as obvious as the smile on their face.

"Do you want to have a little boy? Or a little girl?"

Alma smiled, knowing her answer immediately. "Both!" She looked down at the baby doll, running her fingers over its head. "I want a little girl, so I can dress her up, and teach her to sing." She cocked her head to the side, eyes staring at nothing. "And I want a little boy, so I can see him play sports, and teach him to be a gentleman!" Hearing herself use those words, she laughed again, looking embarrassed. "I want to be a wonderful mommy. More than **anything** in the whole world."

"You will be, Alma. You'll be the best Mommy in the world."

Harlan laughed, but stopped, when Alma's little body got stiff, and she seemed to be on edge. As if seeing something quite the opposite of the world around her.

"But more than that…" She frowned, looking out the window, voice more somber than one would expect a child to be able to make. "I want to…fix the world. I need to fix it."

Painful silence. "Fix the world, Alma? What is broken with the world that needs fixing?" As a father, he knew to keep his voice level steady. Children picked up on unsettling emotions.

Little did he know, Alma did more than that. She took it to an entirely new level.

Alma continued to stare out the window for a few moments, before talking quietly, exhibiting the exhaustion that was visible in her eyes. It was a fatigue that no child should know, Becket realized. This was something that wasn't a result of drinking too much soda, eating too much candy, and staying up all night. This was something much more sinister.

"It's all in ruins, Papa." She shook her head, her little hand reaching over, and gripping Harlans lab coat, little fingernails painted a bright pink. She threw her head around, to look at him, a sudden wide panic in her eyes. "You don't see, Papa? You don't see all the burning? You don't see all the blood? The people need help, Papa, I want to help them." Alma gazed into the camera, trying to reflect what she was seeing into the camera.

"At school, in our Kindergarten class, everyone shoves me away when I get near them. They say that I'm unlucky, they say that I'm bad! Everyone is playing on the slide at recess, and they are all laughing, and telling stories about their pets and things--and when I walk over to them, they all stop, at once. They look so sad, they say that I hurt them! I don't want to hurt _anyone_, I want to make everyone happy! I don't…" She clenched her eyes shut for a moment, before tossing them open, biting her lip, and letting out a pained yelp.

"Alma!" The camera was put on the seat, as Harlan wrapped his arms around the girl, who had her eyes open wide.

"You're sad, daddy…You and Mama, you are both so sad! Do I make you sad?" The little girl spoke softly. "Everyone is so sad…Why isn't anyone happy? There are so many things to be happy about, but everyone is hurting! They won't stop _screaming_!" Alma looked like a five year old, dressed like one, laughed like one. But speaking the way she was now, she sounded more like a jaded war veteran than a playful child. Harlan looked down at her.

"You never make us sad, Alma...Never, not once. Why don't you…close your eyes, and get some rest, Alma? Then everything will be all better." He wanted to know more, but not like this. Not with her like this, so distraught. Becket could tell—He was trying to protect her.

A small whine came from the girl, who shook her head, disheveling her black hair. "No, please, daddy…Please, don't make me do that!"

"Why not, Alma? Sleep is important for growing girls. You know that, don't you?" His voice was beginning to waver. He was starting to lose himself--The father was overwhelming the scientist.

"If I close my eyes, I can see it…I can see _them_." She looked into the camera, face closer to it than before, eyes wide and fearful. "If I close my eyes, they will hurt me. I can feel them, they are so close…" She stopped, a look of realization on her face. Her expression warped into a smile, gazing up at the man clad in white. "So, please, don't let me close them. Let's play a game instead! How about that, Daddy? Pretty please?" Obviously, the little girl was trying to make her father feel better. She picked up negative emotions, so she was trying to fix them.

Rustling had been heard on the audio track, the camera moving unsteadily. And now, it came to light what had happened out of sight of the cameras spotless lens. Harlan held his daughter close, something sweet and needed for the tortured child—But he then brought out a needle, impaling it in Almas neck, as the little girl yelped and cried, but then collapsed in her father's embrace, her tiny fingers going limp against her father's jacket.

"I'm sorry, Alma…Please, forgive me. I'll help you. I'll make it all better, I promise. My Alma…"

And the tape came to an end, static covering the screen.

"God damn it, this is just…" Pierce put his head in his hands. "I know that he was trying help; hell, I'd be trying to do the same thing, but how could everything have gone so _wrong_?"

Garrett looked over at his fellow soldier, and nodded, having been silent up until this point. "I've seen pictures of the crime scene, when you all first saw Alma. What could have made her want to melt peoples skin off? What the fuck could be going on her head, to make her think that's alright?"

Becket looked up. "She doesn't think it's alright. She doesn't want to do it, she wants the opposite."

Stokes looked over at the quiet man, and shook her head. "You and Alma…You have the strongest connection to her. After everything that happened at Armacham last time, you're attuned to her. What's it like, Becket? Have you seen anything we haven't?"

The man leaned back, running his hands through his hair. "There were moments when she would…pull me into her world, I think. I mean to say, show me what she sees. You heard Harlan, she sees the world differently. It's…" He paused. He wasn't sure exactly how to describe it. "Terrifying. It's quiet, it's…lonely. She is killing for revenge, that is obvious, but she is also killing to try and make a 'friend' of sorts." The others seemed unconvinced, unsurprisingly. Liquefying someone defiantly seemed the wrong way to go about friend making.

Stokes nodded her head. "The girl is lonely. Shit, even with as fucked up as she is, even with all that power she's got, she is still a human being. Companionship is just a usual human need, hers isn't fulfilled." She stared up at the blank screen. "This is deep, Rodney. I guess you can't think about shit like this in the field. This is just fucked up."

Rodney shook his head, pulling out the next tape. "Let's just continue. There aren't many more, I know you all want to end this. This isn't in the job description, I know, but we can all agree this is getting us somewhere."

The next tape popped in, and the screen was black. It was quiet, no static, nothing at all—Rodney nearly took the tape out, before a soft voice was heard.

"How could things have gotten this far? I don't know…God, what have I _done_?" Heavy breathing, panic. "I should have let things be. I should have just held her tight, I should have given her sleeping medicine. The experiments…I continue them now, because I must. We are too far along, but she…" Gasping. "She is losing control. It's so many factors; Lack of sleep, these visions, the effect this is having on her body. She is just a little girl, she is just _my_ little Alma! God, why her? Show me these things, **don't** show her!" The emotion was thick in his voice, and with each moment, it was hard to believe that this was Harlan Wade. "She sees the living, but she sees the souls of the dead, as well. The ones who haven't moved on into the light, the ones who are too troubled, and remain here…My little girl, who still laughs so much, and dreams of marriage, she is…" A heart wrenching sob emitted from the man's throat, and through the conference room, it became difficult to maintain composure. They were soldiers, yes, but human as well. "I feel such anguish when I'm near her...But I shouldn't feel that, I am her father! She seems to have that effect on others, as if she is a magnet for all pain. She doesn't want anyone to hurt, yet she can't stop herself. Terrible, terrible, a terrible fate for a little girl!"

Becket winced. How would he feel, if everyone around him was constantly angry, hurting, and all you wanted to do was reverse it? If you were the cause?

He began to realize her feelings. And it made him ache inside.

"She wants to make the world happy, she wants to stop all pain. Yet, I wonder…Is the pain she feels the kind that can be stopped?"

Static. But the video soon resumed, camera perfectly still, not in usual shaky hands. A little girl, strapped to a machine, upright, but fully bound. In a hospital gown, she gazed ahead, speaking loudly. "Papa, I have to go to school! We have a spelling test, and I can't—"

"Alma!" The name was said harshly, and it wasn't from Harlan. No, this voice was deeper, and sounded militant. Everyone in the room could spot that, immediately. And suddenly, each person, each soldier, staring at the television screen, felt as though Alma were their child. Stokes was leaning forward, fists clenched, while Manny had gone white as a sheet.

This proved it. They hadn't lost their hearts in battle.

"You stay still, brat. If you do, this will hurt less."

The little girl went pale—If that were possible to do, with her skin tone. "What…What are you going to do?" An old gentleman in a lab coat starting to hook her up to various devices. Music played in the background—something upbeat. Something that a girl would like.

The old man realized that the gown was getting in the way, and removed it—Leaving the little girl naked, and shivering, surrounded by scientists, needles—Pain.

"Okay, start the test. We are just testing your nerves, seeing what spikes your psychic energy, and what doesn't. Trying to understand you." One of the scientists spoke matter of factly, and Alma gazed at him, hair longer now, dark circles still under her precious eyes.

Everyone stepped back. A man pulled a switch, and a loud noise was heard, electrical in nature—Shocks ran into the small body, and Alma screamed, reminiscent of the screams that Becket had heard so often. The girl begged, pleaded—To no avail. No one moved at her requests to stop, no one flinched. It continued, on and on, as she was strapped up, unable to relieve her pain in any way. And through it all, she was still managing to keep her green eyes open; it was all the more horrific.

Pierce turned away, hand over his mouth. Stokes, shook her head, wiping her eyes, with her jaw clenched, looking as if she wanted to pounce. And Becket was having a hard time coming to terms.

'_I pushed her away, every time. Did I add to this anger? She killed people, I didn't have a choice." _He stopped, reasoning with himself. '_She was a ghost, I'm a human. I can't blame myself for not reacting well.'_

After what seemed like hours, the current was turned off. Almas head fell forward, panting, pained moans coming from her lips. "Please, daddy…Tell them to stop…"

A chuckle came from one of the men. "Your daddy is in an important meeting. He left this up to us. This is what he told us to do to you, my dear."

Alma mumbled.

"What was that, dear? I didn't quite catch that."

"Liar."

The man laughed, his strong frame trembling with each loud cackle. "I'm afraid not, brat. He told us to do whatever it takes to find out what makes you tick. To make those monsters in your little head go away." He ruffled the girls black hair, and her body flinched, wanting so badly to flee from his touch.

"Daddy…wouldn't do that." Her voice was hoarse from the shocks, from the screaming. "Daddy wouldn't hurt me."

"Your daddy hurts you every day, kid. You think most kids are fed intravenously? You think most kids are monitored like you are?" The man laughed. Walking over to the machine, he turned it back on, for a split second—Long enough for one more shock to run through the frail body. She was too exhausted to scream, only tensing her muscles.

"Barker! Her psychic waves are through the roof! You'd better keep your distance—"

"Or what? What is this little twig going to do? I don't think we need to worry about it, she isn't strong enough to—"

The air was painted red. It was unknown, exactly which organs were where—But before it was over, the bones of the man had hit the ground with a final clatter, and all traces of innards were gone. The pale bones were dyed red, and the room was quiet.

Almas face was the portrait of rage. It was in that moment that the woman who had killed Griffin, Keegan, Fox—In those yellow tinted eyes, held just the beginning of that anger, that hatred. The little girl was replaced by the birth of a monster. A monster who had been wronged, and only needed that reason to awaken.

And yet, as quickly as that demon had appeared, it was done. A blink, and the green eyes had returned, as innocent as they had been before. The little girl looked around, confused, and as she saw what was left of the man before her, a look of realization, of guilt, shone on her face. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, her eyes filled with tears, and she let out a sob, a loud sob, as she weakly fought against her binds.

"Let me out…" She spoke softly, voice tired, scared. "Let me out…Daddy, I'm sorry. I want to help…" She shook her head, screaming, but it cut off in another sob, breathing with difficulty. "Am I hurting everyone, daddy? Is that why everyone pushes me away? Why do you all **hurt** so much?" Her head fell down, naked body trembling. The man had been murdered, before their very eyes, obliterated—Yet, this girl showed remorse. This still wasn't the monster they knew so well.

"Help me." Louder. "**Help me**!" The little girl began screaming, uncontrollable, fighting against her binds, but finally going limp, crying loudly. Her body was too thin, even then, even before she was left to die, alone, in the tank, no one to hold her, to rescue her. What had this girl done, besides yield to the power inside? It couldn't be expected of a little girl, to fight against something bigger than herself. To prevail.

The tape fizzled into white noise again, and the room was trembling with emotion. Rodney had a hand over his mouth, looking sick. The new recruits hadn't yet seen Almas hate in action, and so, they each had open mouths, Pierce affected strongly. Stokes had her head down, shaking her head, mumbling to herself.

"There is…one more video tape. Countless audio, but…We can't handle anymore than this now. I can't, at least." Rodney looked up, seemingly aged another fifty years from watching the horrors before him. "I can't take much more of this. This little girl was born with this power, but it didn't have to turn out like this. It didn't have to."

"Just play it, Rodney." Stokes spoke up, voice uneven with unshed tears. "I can't do this anymore, just…get it over with. I'm watching a girl get tortured, I ain't trained for this. This isn't right, I can't…" She stopped.

"That man was just…killed, just like that. But he…did something wrong, he hurt her. He wasn't totally innocent, but she…" Pierce stopped. "Just play it, please."

The Commissioner nodded, and placed the final video into the player, sitting back, ready for this to be over.

It began much like the last tape. Black, with Harlans voice overlapping. This time, it was noticeably different. Older. More hardened, with less of the old optimism. This was the Harlan that the F.E.A.R team knew. This was the cruel man, the one who seemed so heartless. They had shown pity to him before, but that ended, as soon as he began to speak.

"Alma is gone. My little girl is gone." His voice was frightened, afraid of being overheard. "Every now and then, I see a glimpse of her. I think she is still in there, but I don't…" A clatter, and a small gasp from the man, too audible. Everyone in the room jumped, as if they too were there. "I did this. I took things too far. I put her through too much. I mentioned earlier how many died at her anger…" Becket assumed that would be explained on the audio tapes. Those were best left for another time. "She…at first, she couldn't control that. I know that, I know that she didn't mean it. But time has gone on, and now, she…She is doing it on purpose. She is getting her revenge. Maybe we all deserve it, maybe this is Gods punishment for my sins." He coughed, a deep cough, heavy set. "I won't last long, I know that. Please, whoever sees this…Stop my daughter. She isn't evil, she isn't…We are the evil ones. She is only punishing the wicked. Try to find the girl that is in there. She is still alive, that is what my heart tells me." He paused.

"I made it known that we were going to artificially inseminate Alma. If she gave birth to children with the same abilities, maybe we could study their young DNA, find another way to cure her. This company wants them for different reasons, I…" He stopped. "She has grown in the vault, but she doesn't realize that she is older. Time may pass for her, but I don't think that she notices that she is a woman, not a girl. We successfully impregnated her, she gave birth."

The television had been blank during the mans speech, but now it flickered, focusing on a hospital bed. The room was white, pure, untouched--Looking so empty, with no photos on the walls, no flowers, no smiles, for the child which would be born there.

Alma lay in the bed, uncovered, naked, skin glistening from the fluid she had recently been extracted from. She was skin and bones, her hair wet, hiding her face. What could have been a beautiful young woman was destroyed, leaving a skeletal being--Except for the large stomach she bore, where a child had grown for nine months. It didn't seem possible--It seemed as though she would break.

"The indicators claim that she is ready." An unfamiliar doctor spoke, turning Alma over, pulling her legs into stirrups, strapping them in. She was fully unconcious; it was easy to tell. If she had any of her wit, she wouldn't have her eyes closed. She nearly looked peaceful, but there was something that still wasn't at ease. Not even in what should have been the 'sanctitude of slumber.'

Harlan Wade stepped into frame, leaning down to brush Almas hair out of her face, whisper barely audible over the static within the room. "It will be okay, Alma. You won't have to be awake, you won't have to feel a thing. You stay asleep, darling, you dream of nice things. Dream of singing, dream of that cake I made you for your birthday. Remember? The chocolate one? With the candles that you liked, the pink ones." Glancing over the body of his daughter, one obviously not of a young child, but of a growing woman, he winced. Maybe wishing that he could have taken her to her first day of second grade, to her middle school, to see her High school graduation--Things that fathers expected. But this wasn't normal, this was something quite contrary.

This was a nightmare.

He began to walk away, perhaps to prepare himself for the terror of seeing his daughter give birth, not even aware that she was pregnant. As he took a step away, a cold hand gripped his wrist, above his newly polished black watch.

A sharp yell of panic erupted from the mans throat, having an adverse reaction--Alma screamed as well, though weakly. The tube going down her throat had only recently been removed, and so quickly, she coughed, blood spilling from her uncolored lips.

"Papa? Why are you scared? It's me, Papa, it's Alma! We didn't play last time." She smiled brightly--and there was nothing more terrifying, given the situation. He stared at her, face contorted in confusion, fear, and worry. Worry that only increased, as she screamed again, glancing at her own body, hands trembling as they covered her body, up her developing chest, to her face. "What is happening to me, Papa? What am I?" Her voice was louder with each word.

"Alma, you--"

The woman let out a scream, arching her back, mouth open wide in unspeakable pain. A doctor called out. "She will be delivering, there will be no need for a cesarean section." His voice trembled, as he sat at the end of the bed, trying to move the process along. As he did his work, Alma screamed again, looking up at her father, innocent look in her eyes, bright green and pleading. "Daddy, why aren't you helping me? It hurts, Daddy, it hurts!" Her voice was a gasp, as she was wronged.

"Push, Alma. As hard as you can, push." The doctor spoke, glancing up.

Harlan moved closer to Alma, speaking in her ear. "You're having a baby, Alma."

Her eyes seemed to bulge out of her head, as she lay her head to one side, looking at him, looking more excited, yet clutching at the sheets in obvious pain. "A baby? But how, Daddy, I'm too young! I couldn't do that, it's impossible!"

"Just like the Virgin Mary, Alma. Do you remember that story? You loved when I read it to you." He gripped her hand. "Push, Alma. After you push, you can rest. It hurts, but you can handle it, can't you? You can be strong?"

She nodded her head, neck too thin, arms seeming too small to move. Her face screwed up in concentration, her back arched as she panted and thrashed, doing her best not to let out a sound. It was as if seeing a tiny child being overwhelmed by an unseen spirit, contorting her body in ways not thought possible. The conference room looked on in horror, Stokes with her hands over her mouth, letting out small noises as the woman on the white sheets moaned in pain. Rodney seemed very willing to turn it off, but was fighting the urge--Though, his finger still remained on the 'Stop' button.

"It's coming quickly! One more, Alma, one more, that's all." The doctor was doing his best to speak kindly--Though, an edge of unrivaled hatred thrived on his tongue. It was impossible to ignore, and more impossible to understand. Though, some would only see Alma as a murderer, Becket assumed. She was; and yet, at the same time, she wasn't. A murderer killed purposefully, with a weapon. Alma...Perhaps she couldn't help herself. Perhaps once she realized she was committing a crime, it was too late. At least, it was nice to think that way.

With one final moan, Alma collapsed against the pillow, breathing heavily, eyes wide open, staring straight ahead. "My baby..." She spoke in a whisper, hands reaching above her. "My baby, let me see..."

"It is a boy." The doctor spoke, cutting the ambilical cord himself, an assistant cleaning up, inspecting Alma. "She is bleeding quite a bit, Doctor. More than usual. It may have been too much for her, we need to take her away."

Harlan stood, glancing down at the child--Who cried softly, crying for it's mother. Reaching down, he smiled, brushing his fingertips over the childs arm. "Take it to the nursery. Do preliminary tests, I want to check for any inconsistancies. It is possible that he could already be showing signs."

The assistant nodded, taking the baby into his arms. It was a terrifying decision.

Alma leaned up, panting. "Let me see my baby!" Her eyes were focused on her father, as a hunter would stare at its pray. "Let me see him, Daddy, let me see my little baby! It is a miracle, isn't it? I should get to hold him, let me!"

Her father shook his head. "Not right now, Alma. We need to get the baby cleaned up...Later, I promise." His eyes portrayed his true thoughts, and Almas face took on a strange look. Her eyes were blank, her face was dead, as if something had torn apart within her brain.

"You...put me in that Vault, Daddy?"

Harlan went pale, turning to face her, body trembling. "Alma, I--"

"You...Put something inside of me, Daddy. It isn't a miracle. You...You hurt me, Daddy." Her face screwed up, into a childlike pout, eyes showing true emotion, for what could have been the last time in her life. "Why, Daddy? Why did you put me away? I don't want to go back, you won't put me back there, will you?" Her voice changed tones, and with a swift movement, she pulled her legs from the metal binds, standing up, but falling to her knees quick, the sheets and floor stained with her blood. Gripping her fathers jacket, she pleaded. "Don't, Daddy, don't put me back, I can't go back! It's so cold, Papa, so dark, I can't see anything! It's so lonely!" She screamed loudly, her throat protesting the work.

"I want to be with you!"

The assistant came back into the room, looking proud. "Doctor, the baby, it is showing--"

Blood spurted from the mans neck, covered the floor, mixing with Almas blood, staining Harlans perfectly tailored and cleaned coat. His body flew, connecting with the ceiling, before falling back to the floor with fearsome speed, the crack of bones audible. And while there had previously been the smell of new life within the room, the atmosphere had changed, the smell of death now corrupting the space.

Harlan backed against the wall, gasping. "Alma, you can't..." He shook his head. The woman was staring at the floor, and she slowly curled into a ball, wrapping her arms around herself, blood staining the floor below her. "It hurts, Daddy...Why do you hurt me?"

Running forward, Harlan pulled a needle from his coat pocket, doing as he had done in the car so long ago, and impaled it in the girls neck. As she slumped over, her words indecipherable, he gathered her into his arms, any fear melting away, as he held his daughter in his arms.

Whatever he heard within his own mind was unknown. But soon after, he grabbed his head, standing, and staring at the unconcious woman on the ground.

"Someone, get in here! Take her back to the vault. Make sure she is well bound." His voice was loud, autoritative. But the rest was not--It was gentle, as it had been when he first introduced Alma in the crib. "I'm so sorry. Please forgive me."

The video faded, back to audio only. Each person was already at a loss for words--And hearing Harlan did no good. Was the man a heartless monster, taking the easy way out? Or, was he a caring father, looking for a way to help his daughter, whom he loved so much?

"My little girl, in that tank, in the vault; she looks like she is in pain, always. Do you dream while you're unconscious, sweetie? Do you see those demons, even when we have done this? Forgive me, Alma. I locked you up to protect you, and to protect others. You didn't want to hurt people. You wanted to make the world happy. And I took all your dreams away from you. If your mother were here…" An audible gulp. "You didn't mean to kill her, baby, you didn't mean it. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time, she was, it wasn't what you wanted. You loved her very much. She would have loved to see your little baby. He is beautiful, Alma, he is. He has your eyes. You would listen to that music box, that one that you love so much. You would lay in her lap, and ride out those nightmares with her. Maybe I should have let you be. It's my fault, it's my fault, it's my fault..."

Screaming in the background. So much screaming.

"We create our own monsters. And they come back to haunt us. This is Harlan Wade…Please, save her. Save her like I could not."

Static.

Stokes looked up. "He really fucked up. He wanted to help, Bless him for it, but he did the opposite." She looked over, to the box of audio. "I want to hear those, but...I don't know if I can, now. I need to let this sink in."

"So, is there a way..." Manny shook his head. "I can't believe I'm saying this...Is there a way to get her back? I don't know, to reverse the psychopath, and get the girl back out?

Rodney smirked, shaking his head. "We need her help on this mission. We need her to behave. But I don't know if we are the right people to heal her. We're soldiers, damn it. We just need to get the job done."

Stokes looked like she had something to say, eyebrows furrowed, but before she had the chance, the door opened—A nurse entered, a worried look on her face. "Rodney, I—"

"This is a confidential area, Nurse Roberts. I ask that you please ask permission before entering."

"I would, Commissioner, but I wanted to tell you that she is up."

Rodney looked lost for a moment, before repeating the woman. "She is up? You mean—"

"I gave her clothes, couldn't have her walking around like she was. Poor thing has no meat on her bones. She woke up, and screamed her head off, gave me one hell of a fright. She isn't…"

The nurse trailed off, as Alma walked up the hallway, also stopping in the doorway, looking into the room. Her eyes were the green of her childhood, but her frown, the bags, her weary stance—This was someone much less trusting. Yet, still, they could catch a hint of that little girl, riding in the car, talking about marriage and singing. Standing in the hallway, she looked down suddenly, her mouth opening a bit in surprise, eyes showing confusion, fascination, worry, fright. Raising her hands, she stared at them, then looked down to her feet, head cocking to the side. Could it be, she didn't realize the flow of time?

That must be it.

Becket looked at the now-woman, his heart speeding up, unexpectedly. What would she do to him? He was attuned to her, he was part of her now, maybe. Would she fear him? Would she be as Snakefist had said--A coveter? The room had settled back into the same density as the laboratory before, Alma having an automatic effect on the already pained room. It seemed as though their emotions from watching the videos were having an effect on her too, as her eyes widened briefly, and she suddenly gripped the doorframe to keep her stance. Becket winced, hand running through his hair, visions coming through more powerfully thane ever.

_The world, in ruin. Flames, surrounded him, the screams of spirits who could not pass over. Never to feel happiness again--To know that it exists, but to be unable to obtain it. To fight for it, even when she cannot feel it herself. _

The nurse looked over, placing a hand on the woman's shoulder. She looked to be in disbelief--Becket imagined that she had been briefed on the womans condition, and how she had been dead for years. It would spook anyone. It would seem to be a dream, an illusion--Unless you could see it with your own eyes. "Honey, you should be in bed, you should rest. It isn't time to be up, you aren't healed, not strong eno—"

"I'm fine."

She opened her mouth to speak, and it came out in a harsh whisper. Wincing, she reached up to her throat, teeth clenched, eyes closing, but quickly snapping open. Nurse Roberts spoke up again. "Rest that throat, honey, it's…It's torn up." She didn't want to say that after years of decomposition, her vocal chords weren't fully healed—But, obviously, Alma picked up on it. Maybe they had disturbed her healing process. The three new recruits, who were closest to Alma, were staring, but trying to avert their eyes. With the exception of Pierce, who was looking at the woman as if she were his own kin.

Dressed in a white shirt that was far too large for her weak frame, and the usually issued black pants, she didn't look herself, long black hair and pale skin the giveaway. Rodney stood. "Alma, please…come in." He waved his hand towards an empty chair, voice obviously trembling. "We need to talk. Tell you why you're here, you must be...frightened. We have no intent to hurt you."

It took a moment for her to enter. She was wary of the people around her, and why wouldn't she be? For all she knew, they could put her back in that tank, lock her back underground. Body trembling, she sat down, legs shaking, between Becket and Stokes, eyes focused down. The air was tense, and it was palpable, especially to Alma.

It was somehow more terrifying to see her in a state of fear.

'_I know who you are. All of you. I hurt you.' _She looked up, after speaking to each person telepathically, heeding the warning not to use her throat. The way she spoke was the same as she had spoken as a small child, voice knowing and cautious. Rodney shook his head. "Alma, don't think about that, now. We need you, it isn't--"

'_You came to stop me. I remember..." _She stopped, eyes focusing on Rodney. _ "It will hurt everyone, this thing you talk about. You need me, he can't get me. You don't __**want**__ me on this team. I don't blame you. You think I'll hurt you. You think I'll hurt everyone.' _It was odd, hearing Alma so coherent, Becket mused. The others seemed to subconciously move away from her, ever so slightly. Maybe she noticed, her eyes skittishly moved from one to another, looking guilty. _'I'll help you. I want to help everyone."_

All eyes were on the woman, and Rodney cleared his throat, nodding his head, a smile on his face. "I'm very glad, Alma. We don't want to force you to help us. The enemy is something that we can't easily...understand."

Stokes moved her chair closer, not interested in appearing rude--and even less interested in being killed for that rudeness. "Don't be afraid to talk, alright?" In the back of her mind, she could see her men being murdered, thrown around like ragdolls. She wanted to level this woman in front of her, show her what it felt like to lose someone you loved.

But, who did Alma care about? Anyone at all?

Alma first looked at Becket for the first time since the lab, and her eyes widened. Becket felt sweat rolling down his neck, as he sat so close to the other, the one who they had just seen, waving, laughing—Killing her first victim. She recognized him, he could tell.

She kept her eyes on him, head cocking to the side. Rodney met Beckets eyes, questioning what was happening--He tried to convey that he had no idea. It would take a while to become accustomed to the telepathic voice, that was for sure.

_'Can I see your scar?' _

The request was sudden. So, she did remember everything. He didn't like to think back on that time, would much rather pretend that it hadn't happened. But if he did find it within himself to remember, he knew that she was there. During the excrutiating procedure, the one to strengthen their bond, something so odd, so unwanted. She had asked for them to save his life--She didn't want him dead.

He nodded his head, not daring to refuse. Unbuttoning his shirt, after removing his coat, he exposed the long scar, running down the entirety of his torso. She let out a gasp, startling the rest of the group, as she reached out, nearly touching the scar. Her face held an inconsolable sadness, as she raised her gaze to the mans eyes. He met hers, not knowing what emotion his should hold. Yet, as he saw her, he could also see what she saw. The office around them was in smolders--and within his mind, he could hear screaming, yelling, pleading.

She turned her head away, and his vision went back to normal. Rodney spoke up. "Becket, you alright?"

The soldier nodded his head, speaking softly--all the while, wondering if what he said would be his last words. Maybe he should say something witty, after all. "I could see what she sees, Sir. I have been able to do that, since the..." He trailed off, touching the scar briefly, before hiding it. "It takes me off guard, that's all."

Alma looked confused, bringing her face close to his, before sitting back in her seat, pulling one leg up to her chest, as a child would.It was obvious she wanted to speak--But Rodney beat her to the punch.

"Now that the final member of our team is here...I may brief you on this mission. Alma, if there is anything you do not understand, you let us know. I'm sure that everyone here wouldn't mind helping."

The new recruits nodded their head, Pierce especially enthused--Manny was quiet, head bowed in the back, seeming angry, livid, even. Stokes, nodded, smiling gently at the girl. And Becket suddenly wondered what the future held.

Hopefully, it was clear and blood free. Though, he had never been the optimist.

_'As long as I can see my enemy, it will be alright.'_ He glanced at the girl, with the dazed look, the fearful posture--And the unimaginable power.

_'Yeah. It will be alright.' _

_

* * *

  
_

Interval Three Complete, 80%

Coming Soon, **Interval Four: Solid Ghost**—In which Alma tells much more, Stokes puts her foot down, and Becket makes a request.


	5. Chapter 4: Solid Ghost

**Tabula Rasa**

**Interval Four**

**Solid Ghost**

**A/N – **Yes, I have gotten quite a bit of passive aggressive mail/reviews about this update. I will address it now, my dears—I am a college student, I am. A Japanese/Chinese double major, an International Relations minor. As you can imagine, the amount of work is ridiculous! (Yes, I am here for summer term as well.) While I do love this story, and writing in general, from time to time I do have other priorities—Ones that will get me a job in the long run. So, thank you for staying interested, I am sorry for the delay, and let's move on with the new chapter, shall we?

Also, I do take some liberties with the story and the characters. While I do appreciate some people's 'nitpickings' about the story, in most cases, I'm changing things for the sake of the plotline. It is fanfiction, after all—it doesn't have to line up exactly with the original layout.

What could possibly happen next? Let's wind up the Music Box and find out.

* * *

Interval Three

Begin

Each person seemed to be dealing with the new addition in their own way. Pierce seemed oddly aloof about the news, seeming to automatically disregard any mentions of the past crimes the woman had committed. Wanting to help, he offered her flitting glances, like a worried father would of a daughter. The other new recruits were also a bit silent on the matter, as they had only heard of the destruction—Very different from seeing it firsthand. Of course, it was terrifying even still, but looking at the woman, she didn't seem that she could harm a fly. Some people were a bit more wary of Alma, like Stokes—previously, she had been trying her best to seem at ease with the situation, but it seemed as though the more she looked at Alma, the more real things became. This was the girl who had murdered her colleagues before her eyes, who had caused them such trouble…

Yet, there was nothing she could do, was there? Being the true soldier she was, she crossed her arms, sat back in her chair, and kept silent, eyes fixed on the revived being beside her. The company had made this a reality—and as she was truly only a servant of the company, she would keep her mouth shut.

Until Alma screwed up, anyway. She'd be the first to know, and she'd be the first to say 'I told you so.'

Rodney cleared his throat after a moment, attempting to get all eyes on him, and the screen. "If we may continue…" Just as shaken as the rest of his crew, he tried to steady his shaking hands, wondering if the girl had picked up on his uneasiness. "We're still waiting for a majority of details to come in, but I still think it's better to brief you on what we do know. That way, if anything happens, you won't be completely in the dark." Knowing that he was going to have to bring up Alma in this conversation, he said a small prayer under his breath, praying that she wouldn't decide to take offense.

"The eyewitnesses report 'unexplainable noises', as well as 'odd urges', ones that they can't say are their own. They were in fine health, exploring the rubble near the stadium, until, according to the one we were able to speak with, something seemed to be giving them orders, putting images, thoughts, in their heads. Of course, a few of them weren't able to give testimony. Seems they let things get to them." Reaching into a folder on the table, he spread out four photos, each showing a man who seemed to be only half intact. Eyes torn out, patches of hair missing, obviously the product of insanity.

Stokes looked up, speaking under her breath, a slight whisper. "Sounds like mind control." She rolled her eyes, tilting her head back to stare at the ceiling. "Firefights are fine, I'm used to it. Point me to the bad guys, and my men and I will take care of it. But all this—once again—it isn't natural. How are we supposed to fight something that can get inside our heads?"

Rodney ran his hands through his hair, elbows on the table, desperation showing. "I wish that I could have given you all time to recover. But look at this shit, you understand, we need to get to the bottom of it. More details should be coming in soon, but we're going to have to do some digging ourselves. We need soldiers."

During the entirety of this morbid conversation, Alma had been seemingly distracted by her body, glancing over every inch, fingers tracing over her arms and legs, her developed chest, a few scars that didn't quite heal here and there, from medical drips, from incisions made for the good of science. She seemed amazed, by the look on her face, yet every few moments, it would scrunch up, into something of horror—the way a child's face distorts when they are frightened. Becket had been listening, but his eyes were focused on the woman beside him, as were a few of the other recruits. Staring, like she was an animal in a zoo. Did that make them no better than those who wanted to crack her open, see what made her tick?

Finally, she seemed to realize that she was not alone, as she had been for so many years. Her body shook slightly as her gaze was raised, fixating on the photos on the table. Strangely enough, even though she was in the body of a grown woman, it was difficult not to see her as a young child, difficult to show her these graphic images. Becket wanted to laugh—she had seen people murdered in cold blood, done the deed herself. Yet, why did it feel so wrong to continue to subject her to it?

Had she known anything but horror? Had she seen a world without blood, and screams? Or had her vision always been so…

Becket didn't want to think about it. He needed to focus, not let any personal feelings or beliefs get in the way. That was the strength of a soldier, after all. Removing yourself from the situation, being an observer. The scar seemed to ache under his clothing, and he wondered if removing himself was even _possible _anymore.

Pulling one of the pictures towards herself, she studied it carefully, her eyes moving back and forth, from one detail to the next. Manny, who had been utterly silent in the back of the room, kept his eyes on her, face unreadable—yet, based on what he had said before, he wasn't sold on the idea that the girl wouldn't snap, and try to tear them all to shreds. Though, like most of them, a little glimpse of the past had certainly given him a wider stance on the issue.

Raising a shaky hand, thin, yet not terribly so, she picked up the photo, holding it closer to her face. Rodney watched her curiously, wondering if her eyesight had deteriorated in her imprisonment. Certainly, it seemed a possibility. Yet, a sudden voice in his mind told him that wasn't the case. _'I can see.' _ The commissioner shivered, not used to the sensation of someone speaking to him telepathically—and certainly not used to his mind being read. He realized that his facial expression was one of shock, and quickly wiped it off, putting on his usually blank face, one most suited for giving orders. The others seemed to have heard her as well, meaning that she was able to project her thoughts to many—was it on purpose? Her eyes continued to stare at the photo, until something very unexpected happened.

Her eyes started to tear up, very obviously. Quickly, she put the picture down, and pushed it away from her, as far as she was able, eyes closing. Taking one large deep breath, she shook her head, slowly, wrapping her arms around herself. Pierce seemed to be the only one to work up his courage, leaning forward towards the woman, and speaking in a truly fatherly voice. "Alma? What is it?" He almost didn't seem suited to be a soldier, with the look in his eyes—too caring to kill, Becket mused. Looking up, long hair falling away from her eyes; she looked like she was facing the firing squad. Maybe she was.

'_I don't want to look at it.' _She clenched her eyes shut again. _'Please, I don't want to see, I don't want to see...'_ She seemed desperate, body shaking terribly. Becket wanted to do something, and it seemed the others did too—what caused this change? Surely the pictures weren't so shocking, with what Alma had seen? What she had done?

Stokes seemed to have the same train of thought, clenching her teeth, and turning to face the seemingly helpless girl. "Don't tell me that picture scares you? After everything that happened, after all the people you _butchered_, you can't handle a photo?" Reaching out, she picked it up in a clenched fist, shoving it in the girls face, livid. "Go on, look at it! Doesn't it make you happy? These people probably _deserved_ it, right?"

Manny stood up, hands on the table, trying to get the Lieutenants attention. "Stokes, enough!" He agreed with her, fully—but, he also didn't want to see her torn into pieces, severed head on the tile. The new recruits were also shooting her glares, with the exception of Pierce, who seemed to be trying to piece things together, to understand the reanimated life before him. "Give her space, Lieutenant," he said, holding up a hand. "Don't push her."

Becket only then realized that he had his hands out; as if he was going to pull the girl closer to him, get her away from what was scaring her so much. Realizing this, he quickly retracted them, and watched Stokes sit down, slamming the photo back down on the desk, and going silent. You could hear a pin drop, and the only audible thing was Almas panting breath, as she struggled to fight with whatever was in her mind. Pierce spoke up again, sharp features softened by the words coming from his lips. "What is it, Alma? Tell us, so we can help you."

'_You can't help me.' _

The words weren't particularly icy—more like someone reading a fact out of a textbook_. 'He was scared; he didn't want to do what it wanted. It wanted him to do bad, bad things. Terrible things.'_

Rodney leaned forward. "What did it want him to do, Alma?"

She shook her head, fingers gripping her hair. _'I don't know, I don't know, but the person that made him do it, he is very strong. He is very angry. Very angry, very angry!'_ Her eyes got wide, mouth opening in a silent scream. The terror on her face hit each member of the team hard; and suddenly, the videos they had seen, that little girl, seemed to be in front of them. Not a woman, but an innocent child, who was forced to see things that she didn't want to see, every moment.

And they realized why she was upset. They were no better than the visions, showing her visions of horror, for the good of the investigation. The bloody image of the man most likely brought up other memories.

So many terrible memories.

Becket couldn't stand it. Reaching out his hand, he gripped her arm, barely putting any pressure into the gesture, afraid that he would snap her in two if he held on too tightly. The moment seemed to happen in slow motion, as he wondered what would happen to him, for daring to touch her. Would she lash out physically, kick and scream? Would she find a way to escape the leash they had on her, and melt his skin with her mind? Would she look at him with those eyes, those yellow eyes, otherworldly and dangerous, making that guilt weigh on him, heavier and heavier each time?

It was the exact opposite. As his hand touched her slightly warm skin, all the stress seemed to leave her body, and with a small exhale, she opened her eyes, looking around in what seemed to be a dizzy confusion. Each team member looked at one another, trying to piece together what had happened, why the anger and fear had disappeared so quickly. The commissioner spoke up. "Alma, I apologize, you don't have to see the pictures anymore." His voice was trembling—there was no way to hide it.

Long black hair flowing around her thin shoulders, Alma was looking at Becket now, her face the closest to 'calm' that it could be. He was glad, for more than one reason—no one would die, for one—but the question was, why? Why did he have such an effect? But the look in her eyes was unmistakable, calm that perhaps she didn't remember having once in her life. No fear, no confusion, only an acceptance. The skip of a normal heartbeat.

Taking his hand away, slowly, sweat dripping down his back, he listened to Stokes mumble to herself, loud enough for the others to hear, "She killed Griffin, and she can't handle a few pictures…She's just waiting for the right fucking moment to kill us all—"

Alma turned her head painfully fast, eyes painfully wide, teeth bared. "You're wrong!" She spoke aloud, near a scream, through the pain, her voice taking on the semblance of what it once was, but still painfully raw. Gripping the arms of the chair, she kept her eyes open; fighting the urge to close them, Becket noticed. They were all paralyzed, not knowing how to diffuse the situation without blood being spilt or without an unconscious psychic once again. It was something they didn't want to do—having her awake was better, perhaps.

Becket somehow knew what was coming. He was pulled into that world again, her world. The room remained the same, yet in her version, it was in a state of decay. The floors, the ceilings covered in blood and strange writings, an eerie tint over the entirety of it. As if fire had scorched every inch, and every person and thing within; the aura of pure agony washing over everything. In his ears echoed the sound of moans and screams—He did his best to focus straight ahead, telling himself it was a vision, not real, not real…

But it was real to her. This was all she knew, after all. Wasn't it? Did she ever see things differently? A world where people smiled?

Glancing at his teammates, he clearly saw the image of their bodies being eaten alive by time, skin starting to disintegrate, in agony. But he then realized that they too were reacting—Stokes had her mouth open in a silent scream, looking around frantically, as the new recruits had stood up, backing away from the others. Manny had his eyes closed, shaking his head back and forth.

They were seeing it too, then.

Becket, as much as he didn't want to admit it, was now used to this. However, his body trembled at the stress, heart beating quickly, the sound obnoxious in his ears. These spells only lasted a bit, before things returned to normal, and he could put the visions behind him. At night, when he closed his eyes, however, everything came rushing back—the feeling of helplessness that one acquired when everywhere they looked, there was only dread. Knowing that behind every corner would only be more of the same, constant uneasiness, never to know peace e.

He stood, watching Alma, knowing that this stemmed from her anger. However, was this the max of her powers now? It was horrific—the idea that the others were seeing the same made his blood pressure rise, anger threatening to come through. Before he could contemplate, he heard her voice in his mind once more, that strange echo.

'_I don't want to hurt anyone. I don't want to hurt you, please. No more, no more, no more…Blood, so much blood! Did I do this, daddy? Did I do this to everyone? My babies…Did I kill them? Please, no, anything but that, anything but that!' _A scream shot through their consciousness, slowly becoming a soft moan, sobs breaking through. '_My babies, my babies…Don't let me hurt them, don't let me hurt anyone. Help me, help me!' _The words were so pleading, so beseeching, it felt like needles through his heart, not knowing what to do, not knowing how to help. The room continued to smolder, and Becket could take it no longer. Reaching out his hand, he gripped Almas emaciated arm.

All was quiet. Back to normal. As if a light switch had been flipped.

Fearing that he was the one keeping the balance, he kept his fingers wrapped around the girl's upper arm—His focus, however, was on the other people in the room, the ones who had been thrown into the unfamiliar territory. Stokes had ended up on the floor, eyes wide open, but slowly trying to recover her wits—A true warrior. Pierce had apparently been unable to help himself, and had emptied the contents of his stomach in the corner of the room, panting. The others were in various states of shock, slow to react. Rodney looked incredibly shaken, knuckles white as he gripped at the table. Breathing slowly, he seemed to realize what had happened, and looking at Alma, his eyebrows furrowed, in an unreadable emotion.

This snapped the Sergeant back into reality, and he finally brought himself to meet eyes with the broken woman beside him. He only did so with some hesitation; for what he saw in those eyes was something that no child, no woman, no man, should know. Reading her face, eyes no longer harsh and bright, he felt himself trying somehow, mentally, to put an end to the anguish. To put an end to the visions, to, with his own ability and imagination, automatically fix everything.

'_I want to fix the world…' _

Her face wasn't as calm as he had hoped. In fact, as moments passed, it seemed to morph into one of sadness—Not fear, not anger, only a genuine sadness. Soft sobs passed through her lips, as she spoke into their minds. Her throat took a hit after that scream, Becket could tell. Her other hand grasped at it, her eyes remaining open. _'I don't want to hurt any of you, don't want to. Not bad people, not bad…Don't let me do bad things, please don't let me. Help me find them, help me find my babies.' _ And as she stood, she began to slump to the floor, and on her knees, she allowed herself to cry, painfully loud sobs, forcing their way past her scarred and deteriorated throat, hands clenched into fists.

He couldn't handle it.

His hand still on her arm, he brought himself to the floor as well, speaking as loudly as he could, voice sounding more gruff than usual. "Alma, look." He held up his other hand, waving it. "I'm not hurt, you see? No pain." He looked around at the others, who were still in various stages of recovery. "They aren't hurt either. Not hurt at all. You won't hurt us, if you don't want to."

To be honest, he was afraid to take his hand off of her. Somehow, he was nullifying her anger—though the sobs were excruciating to listen to, after so many years locked underground, left to die, forced to do unimaginable things, to see death every minute—perhaps a few tears were allowed.

Hell, she could cry forever then, couldn't she?

Pierce had made his way back to the table, sitting down with a heavy sigh. His own face was tear stained, and he spoke softly. "If my little Allison had to see that…" He stopped, once again overcome with emotion. This seemed to be the general aura in the room, in any case. Rodney gave a kind of signal to Becket, to keep talking to Alma, keep her engaged, to not let her fall back into that cycle once again. "Why did you show them, Alma? Why did you show them what you see?" Stokes was staring at the girl from her place on the floor, a safe distance away. The anger that she had held against the girl seemed to be dwindling steadily.

'_Daddy was right, then?' _ She looked up at him, sobs replaced by silent tears, body shaking so hard that there was a possibility she'd crumble. _'What do you see? What does everyone else see?' _She looked at each of them. Her posture suddenly became desperate, as she turned to Becket and gripped his other arm, face close to him, skin pale. _'Do you know where they are? Where are my babies? Are they seeing this too, are they?' _

It was certainly an expected question, especially coming from her disorganized mind. The subject of the babies had always weighed heavily on Becket—for each time she would appear out of the darkness, around a corner, behind him, sneaking, he would hear that voice, disjointed and accusing.

'_Where are my babies? Give them back to me…' _

Doing his best to keep his wits, with her thin fingers grasping at him, he reached up and took her hands—oddly warm, he expected them to be freezing—and held them still, feeling the urge to begin shaking too, to let emotions come through. He was known to be stoic, and now was the best time to keep that frame of mind. His voice sounded far away, as if it wasn't him saying these things. Things that may turn out to be lies in the end.

"We'll search for them, alright? We'll search for them, and you can see them again." He sighed roughly, more unpleasant memories coming from somewhere deep within his subconscious.

"_She didn't even get to hold them."_

Surprisingly, it had an effect. He expected her to start screaming for more immediate results, for them to go find the children, bring them here immediately, or the bloodbath would begin. But no, those wide eyes stared at him, through him, it seemed, trying to pull herself together. It was extraordinary, in reality, that she had that kind of brain power at all. That she could _think_ was a miracle, of sorts. Not when she saw what she saw, not after being locked away for a lifetime.

Her body slowly began to go limp, head falling to the side, onto Beckets shoulder, body shaking. _'Hurts. Hurts, hurts.'_

Rodney spoke up at that, having his duty to keep an eye on the girls' physical state. Now, mental, that was an entirely different story…And it seemed as though Becket were tending to that, whether he wanted to be or not. "What hurts, Alma? Tell us, and we'll try to fix it." He was sitting straight up, trying to access the 'damage' done to his team.

'_I feel heavy. Hard to breathe right.' _

Rodney nodded slowly. "That's to be expected…After so long without standing on your own legs, or using your muscles, it will feel that way for a little while." His voice sounded harsh, unattached. Pierce shot him a slight look, and spoke up. "Alma, can you be strong for us? It'll get better soon, you'll see." The man played the father role to a T. She seemed to catch on, and picking her head up, off of Beckets shoulder, to his slight relief, she nodded strongly. It was obvious that she was trying to show that she was invincible.

After all, what reason would they have to lock a strong, sane person up in the vault?

It wasn't long before Stokes decided to speak up, her tone of voice not one leaving room for argument.

"Sir," She stood up, taking a minute to regain her balance, "I'm going to get some air. And also, the second floor women's dormitory is off limits."

Rodney seemed confused, and slightly ruffled. "Alma will need somewhere to sleep. You're being unreasonable—"

"She can find somewhere else! I'm not dealing with this, Rodney. Don't try to stack any of this on me. We can do this without all this extra baggage." She shot a glare at Alma, though weak, and quickly rushed out of the room. Manny seemed to be particularly disturbed by the situation, and also stood, looking nervous. "She just needs some time, Rodney, you understand."

The Commissioner let out a heavy sigh, and nodded his head. "I know, I know. It's just tough, having this mission, and having everyone fall apart." His voice held no malice, but made him seem twenty years his senior.

"I gotcha, Rodney." The man walked towards the door. "We all just need some time to get our emotions in check. It's been a long day. We ain't used to all this." Before he left, he look at Alma—and allowed a small smile onto his face, and a nod of 'good luck'. It was a messed up situation, but he wasn't going to add to the tension. Hell, they could fight it. They could help her fight it. And after seeing the other-world, the one that she inhabited, he had never wanted to save someone quite so badly.

Maybe that was just an alternate meaning of their mission. Sure, fight the bad guys, whoever they were. But save this girl in the process. Girl, woman…Neither word seemed to fit her just right.

As Manny rushed off to attempt to cool down the hotheaded Lieutenant, and the other new recruits left the room for some sleep with solemn 'good nights', Pierce looking especially shaken up, Rodney fixed his gaze on the girl in front of him, the one trying so hard to show nothing. Things were looking up, as the hallucinations weren't continuing—But Alma seemed to be in a new form of trepidation. She kept her eyes now fixed on the ground, body very still. To call her a girl was mistaken, he realized. What was she? The question held more meanings than one. Her hand remained firmly in Beckets—the soldier seemed more shaken by the second, blue eyes staring worriedly at her emaciated frame, wondering where to go from here.

"Alma, I—"

'_And why do…Why do I look like this?' _

It was as if suddenly, she had become hyperaware of herself. She began to glance herself over, truly showing an emotional response, not the daze it had been before, during the briefing. Holding her arms up, as if they were burning, she stared at Rodney, assuming he was the one behind everything. _'How am I…'_ She went silent, perhaps in a state of processing. Things could only go downhill, Becket feared—He suddenly felt like a good night's sleep and a fresh perspective in the morning. Then again, he didn't want to close his eyes. Rodney seemed to feel the same way, leaning down on one knee.

"Alma, everything will be explained in time. It's a lot to take in, I understand." He realized that Alma hadn't been in any true pain since she entered the room—And the metal ring was secure around her neck. This meaned that she hadn't attempted to release any psychic energy to a level that was dangerous. She had wanted to; Rodney could tell—was it really the machine holding her back? Or was it her own mind?

Was she in control of her actions? Was she showing restraint?

"Can you stand, Alma? It's cold on the floor, we can't have you sick." He smiled shakily, standing, leaving the job of helping the girl up to Becket. Anyway, it seemed like there was something between the two of them…Something unexplainable. The scar running down Beckets chest explained quite a bit of it, but the effect he had after the visions, that was something they didn't realize, didn't account for. It was a blessed miracle, perhaps.

But who could really plan ahead now? It was truly time to play things by ear.

The soldier once again took one of Almas hands, hesitantly, wanting to offer support. The moment he did so, her hand clenched around his, in a way that could never, in a million years, seem threatening. This was a trusting hand, believe it or not—Hell, he didn't believe it himself—and standing, he nearly lifted her lithe body. She was a fighter. The look in those tired eyes was one of pure hell, but it was someone who wasn't going to fall over and give up. He remembered those files, the ones he heard underground. _'Not many people can just refuse to die.'_

Rodney motioned for them to walk into the hall. Becket didn't know what else to do, aside from hold Almas hand—the girl was in some kind of trance, and stared ahead, only breaking it every now and again to look down at her body.

What would it be like to be put to sleep as a child, and wake up as an adult? To be so completely different, without remembering?

Terrifying.

"Alma," he said softly, needing to get a foothold on the situation, "Don't be afraid. We aren't going to hurt you, do you understand me?"

She looked at him, the blunt honesty of a child in her eyes. _'But I have already hurt you.'_ She stopped and pointed at the scar on his chest. Becket shook his head, hating that memory to be brought up. "That wasn't you. You were there, I remember, you…" He paused, the memory seeming clearer than it had before. "You asked them to save me. You were trying to help me, Alma, weren't you?" It was more than he had spoken in a while, he realized. His throat ached.

She nodded her head, quickly, gripping onto his hands, those fingers so pleading_. 'I couldn't do anything, couldn't do anything…' _Her body shivered—Whether from cold, or something else, wasn't certain_. 'I've hurt you all, I've hurt everyone! I killed…'_ Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head. It was a point at which a normal person would close their eyes, and let the tears fall. Yet Alma, while allowing the latter to occur, wouldn't shut those eyes, those precious eyes. They stayed open, ready for any threat. Ready to defend herself, ready to fight all nightmares—Even if it meant murder.

The hallway lights were dim, and Becket already knew that it was late. An entire day of this, an entire day of adjusting, of trying to get answers. But he realized what mattered now was allowing her to feel at home. To give her something she never had. He wasn't sure just what that was, but he knew what it wasn't. It wasn't treating her like anything other than a human being. Becket could only hope that the others felt the same way, at some level.

As tears leaked down her face, Rodney seemed uncomfortable, seemed to be the cause of the distress. Becket thought about his options, and took a step towards the Commissioner, his voice lowered to a whisper. "Look, Rodney…I'm beat, but I don't think Stokes is going to cooperate. At least not until she calms down." He glanced back at Alma. "Something is different, between the two of us. Alma and I, I mean. I don't know if it has to do with what they did to me back at that hospital, or if it is something else, but _somehow_, I calm her down. Somehow, I give her a hold on her emotions." He sighed, knowing what he was suggesting was against protocol. "Let her stay with me, tonight. I can deal with lack of sleep, you know that. She just needs time to adjust."

'_Everyone is going to sleep...' _Alma glanced around, and then looked to Becket, panicking _'Don't make me sleep, please. And, don't…' _ Her face contorted in horror. _'Don't put me back there, please, don't put me back there. I'll be good, I promise! Don't put me back in the v—'Before_ she could finish, Becket turned and gripped her shoulder, gently. "You aren't going back there, not ever. Not for the rest of your life, do you understand?"

There was silence. The Commissioner seemed shocked, and a little impressed with his Sergeants words and adamant speech. And Alma…Alma was also still, yet suddenly, a tiny smile appeared on her face. Barely a smile, but Becket could see it. The relief. She wasn't sure if she was being lied to…But damn it, she was praying, hoping, with everything she had.

"You're going to stay with me tonight, Alma. Is that alright?" He hoped that he could coax her into sleep, but he knew it was going to be an uphill battle. "You don't have to sleep. I might, but we'll work something else." Alma seemed like she wouldn't fight it; she seemed pleased, or as pleased as she could be. Looking at her, holding onto her, it was still hard to believe that this was the same spirit. The one who just a few days ago, had been at the epicenter of such fear and destruction.

Maybe she could be saved.

Rodney seemed fine with the arrangement, leaning in and whispering back, "its fine. This is a special case. You keep your eye on her, I mean it, Becket." He nodded, and gave a small salute, wandering off to bed. And in that moment, Becket realized that he was alone with her, in the empty corridor. Glancing down at his watch, he noticed that it was nearly eleven o' clock at night—Way past the girls bedtime. He only wondered how Manny would deal with her in the room…Pierce certainly wouldn't mind, but the other two, Harvey and Garrett—they may have objections.

As he walked, Alma kept up, her hand curled around his. She spoke in only a whisper, in his mind—He shivered, hoping that she didn't notice. _"You know what happened."_

It was slightly accusing.

"_You know what happened to me. You know everything I did. You know everything…" _

She stopped walking, and he did as well, not feeling like dragging her back. Sighing roughly, running his other hand through his hair, he nodded. He had a feeling that lying wouldn't be so wise in this situation. "I do." His voice was low, wary. "We can deal with this in the morning, I'll tell you—"

'_Let me see.' _ The grasp on his hand tightened, and he suddenly felt something akin to a toothache, in his molar. It seemed to spread into his head—Not a strong pain, but an ache, like something was moving around inside of his brain. Gasping, he felt his vision begin to go black; but the moment he was about to faint, from the strange sensation, it ended abruptly, and he felt himself regain the energy he thought he had lost.

The same couldn't be said for Alma.

Her mouth was open in a silent scream. Letting go of Beckets hand, she backed up, against the wall, her hands touching it, clawing at it, fearfully trying to escape whatever she had seen. Soft noises came from her throat—near sobs, yet without the energy. Becket could imagine.

Her childhood. Her mother, dead at her hands. The blood and carnage of those she killed. Her children being taken.

Hell.

"Alma," he reached out, gripping her arm. As he made contact, she collapsed against him, instantly, a dead faint. He eased her down to the floor, speaking under his breath, not paying attention to the words that he was speaking, but hoping that they were enough to get through to her.

"Come on…" He leaned down, picking her up in his arms, sickened at the weight of her, so light and fragile. Rounding the corner, he walked through the door, seeing the other men—With the exception of Manny, who was probably still trying to convince Stokes to come around.

Pierce was the first to glance up, surprise reading on his face. "What happened?" They were all still sitting around, Becket noticed, probably unable to deal with sleep with what they had seen. 'Welcome to my world,' the Sergeant thought.

"She looked into my head." That obviously wasn't known as dangerous, since the machine hadn't blocked it. "She probably saw everything. Everything that happened to her."

They were quiet. Pierce spoke with some confidence, nice to hear in this situation. "I think…that may be a good thing. In the long run. Better to have her know everything, than keep her in the dark. She deserves to know."

Becket laid Alma down on the bed beside him—the bed which had been Griffins—and sat beside her, unable to help himself from brushing the hair out of her face. The second he took his hand away, she began trembling—her body began to shake, soft moans coming from her mouth, skin hot. The other soldiers looked away, the videos of her, as a small child, wishing to become a star, flashing in their minds. "God damn it," Garrett mumbled, "She ain't a monster. She's a killer, but the circumstances…"

Becket quickly took her hand, and as he had expected, the thrashing subsided, only a few whispers coming from her mouth.

"How the hell do you do that, Becket?" Harvey spoke up.

He wished he had a good answer. "I don't know." He shook his head. "It could be something to do with what they did to me, back in the field. You heard about it."

Pierce nodded. "You two are connected. I think it's a good thing. Now, we have two things to restrain her." He pulled back the covers on his bed, head on the pillow. "I'm beat."

The other two agreed, quickly preparing for bed, the lights in the room going out. Becket said a quick good night, knowing that they would have to wake up early. Part of him was glad that Alma was 'sleeping'—He wasn't going to let her hand go. He knew what would happen if he did.

He heard her voice in his mind, shocking and unexpected. _'You aren't leaving?'_ It was a question, he thought. Becket should his head, his voice a whisper. "No, I'm not."

'_It's dark.'_

"I know."

'_I'm scared.' _

"Don't be, there is nothing to be afraid of. We've got you. I've got you." Where were these words coming from?

'_It's lonely.' _

"You aren't alone now."

After a few silent moments—With Becket questioning these sudden words erupting from his throat, ones of emotion and truth—her eyes snapped open, and she sat straight up in the bed.

"Daddy's here."

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Interval Four Complete, 80%

Coming Soon, Interval Five: Checkmate – In which the enemy attacks, missions are revealed, and Becket realizes the power of having someone to protect.

A/N – The next chapter will be longer, and this one will be edited. While I had the time, I wanted to post _something_ for all of you. I hope that you enjoy. The enemies will be introduced next chapter, this is a promise! I hope everyone is having a nice summer.


	6. Chapter 5: Checkmate

**Tabula Rasa **

**Interval 5**

** Checkmate**

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Author Note: Well, saying sorry probably won't cut it. Then again, I could have abandoned the story all together, right? Hehe. Well, I hope everyone is getting pumped up for F.E.A.R 3. The trailer is out, and the race is on—It's due out this fall, from what I hear. Anyway, I've fallen deeply in love with this story once again, and with Becket and Alma's exciting relationship. I do hope that you'll forgive me, and enjoy the new chapter. It's summer vacation in two weeks, so more updates will be imminent. Much love.

I'm also going to make the chapters a bit shorter (barely!), and will therefore update more often. Sound good? Good. Glad.

So without further ado…

Interval 5

**BEGIN**

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In a world like this, of course, there was always room for things to get stranger. And beyond that, maybe there was room for things to get more dangerous, too. She was here, after all, but seeing her other side had helped. She was no longer a completely mystery—Only partially now. She was no longer erupting out of the shadows, to grab onto his arm, to trick his senses. She was no longer only bone, covered by leathery flesh, long dead, long drowned, long murdered. She was alive now.

Yet seeing her face as she sat upright in the bed reminded him that there was a long way to go before she could heal. Or really, could she heal?

After he woke up from the surgery, his body aching, sure that he wouldn't last on his feet, he remembered her in the doorway, for that split second, a phantom. A soul, trapped in such a terrible place. He remembered her voice then, clearly.

_'Who's there?'_

What did she see, then? Was the world falling apart? Was she truly all alone, in her own little world? A world created so that she didn't have to suffer, so that she could try to escape from the wrongs of this one.

She wanted everyone to smile. But could she return the favor? What would she look like, with a smile on her face--Like she had shown when she was a little girl.

"_Daddy's here."_

He hadn't been sleeping anyway—and he doubted that he could, even with the fatigue—but he still startled a bit when she spoke aloud. Sitting up, he could see her clearly, as the room wasn't completely dark. Eyes wide, mouth ajar, for a moment, she looked like the frightening spectre he had come across so many times. However, the hand that was in his was warm, and was clutching him so strongly, that he couldn't mistake her for anything but a frightened girl.

A frightened _woman._

_The room went dark, the walls decaying from the inside out, the bodies of his teammates starting to drift into a different time, decaying too fast, their bones visible through thinning skin--And he felt himself breathing hard, pulling his mind together. But could he? Shaking a bit, he got up, standing over her bed--But she didn't react. Perhaps he wasn't real either. Or perhaps she still didn't know where she was. _

Moving to sit closer beside her, he wondered if she was having a dream—or a nightmare, to be more precise. Squeezing her hand, not knowing what to do next, Becket realized how truly lost he was in all of this. The men in the room were still asleep, and the next step didn't seem clear. Shaking her seemed somehow cruel, slapping her awake was out of the question. He was an independent man, who had no family to speak of, and who had never had to take care of anyone. This was so far out of his league, he wasn't even sure he could learn these skills.

He didn't have to do much, perhaps luckily, because the girl turned her head to stare at him with wide eyes, and his heart seemed to stop. The room itself melted away for a moment, into white light, and Becket wondered if this was what it was like.

'_When her heart stopped beating, could she feel it? Did she watch herself die?' _

The thought was terrifying the more he dwelled on it. What would it be like to be alive in spirit, watching from the outside, as your body deteriorated? It was funny, how someone like him, so focused on his job, his position, lost track of reality. And this was her reality, however ridiculous it seemed. She was here, when she had been lost for so long. What was it like, to be trapped? Though, she had wanted to live, hadn't she?

'_Most people can't just refuse to die.' _

And she did refuse, didn't she? She had unfinished business, she wanted revenge.

…Didn't she?

The room was normal now, and he wondered if that had just been his own imagination. Her eyes were bright, yet so full of fear, that he would do anything to make them childlike. The innocence that she had shown in the car with her father, talking about her hopes and dreams. He had to wonder, did she remember what her dreams were? Or maybe she had been lost too long, and let them die, long before she did.

She squeezed his hand harder, shocking him with her strength in her still fragile body. She opened her mouth to speak, and it was hesitant—as if knowing that doing so would be painful. Or maybe, she wasn't yet used to having the option. "You have to…warn them."

"Warn them?" He tried to keep quiet, but his voice was a bit loud by nature. "Of what, Alma?" He wouldn't let go of this hand, not now. Saying her name out loud let him concrete what was happening, but it felt heavy on his tongue.

"He's here." Barely above a whisper. "He's here, he's here…They are here. So many of them, but why are they here...?" Panic in her eyes, her body shuddering, she got onto her knees, large clothing disheveled, one shoulder sticking out of her shirt. Becket wanted to reach out and fix it, but maybe things were too serious for that at the moment. He realized that maybe this wasn't a nightmare, after seeing the readiness in her movements.

The new enemy…? Could it be?

"Alma," he spoke quietly, still. "Is it the enemy? Is it…the thing that made those men die?" For some reason, talking about death with Alma was odd, and slightly wrong, though not for the reasons he expected. She had murdered his teammates, and countless others, committed atrocities. And yet, the only reason he felt guilt at mentioning these things, was because of her innocence, the innocence had seen on the video tapes. Though she was in the body of a woman, and she was strong like a woman, he couldn't shake the image of her child eyes out of his mind. You do not speak about murder, blood, death, around a little girl.

But this woman had seen enough blood and death for a million lifetimes, hadn't she?

She was nodding her head, slowly, an answer to the question. Her eyes were darting around, as if seeing something no one else could. The men in the room slept soundly, but this, apparently, wasn't a good thing. "No, they can't be asleep, it's too easy…They have to be conscious, have to fight. Too easy. Too easy, too easy, too dangerous…" The woman spoke in a whisper, one hand on her throat. Her gaze snapped to the door, which was shut, a whimper escaping her throat, long hair falling into her face. "Wake up…" It was a whisper. She repeated it, but it only came out a bit louder—Surrendering, she forced her telepathic window open, voice a sob as it loudly hit each sleeping member of the room. **"Wake up!"**

The effect was, as to be expected from the intensity of the words, instantaneous. Pierce startled awake, no doubt a light sleeper from his life with a small child. The others rose at similar speeds, some rubbing their eyes, and others looking around for some enemy to punch.

Eyes slowly came to settle on Alma, some kindly, some accusingly, and while Manny looked irritated (albeit he was someone who loved sleep), Pierce spoke up, after a long yawn. "What is it Alma? Do you need something?" Of course, he wouldn't be irritated—but with seemingly no enemies around, the others started mumbling about getting more sleep. It was almost sad to watch, as she attempted to speak out loud, her voice, something that could be very beautiful, raw and forced, sounding as if she were being choked. "Don't sleep…They are here. They are coming." She coughed a painful cough, gripping the sheets with her other hand, and Becket couldn't help but pull his hand away, and proceed to rub her back. He felt like an idiot doing so, but the gesture wasn't completely unwelcomed—She didn't move away, and seemed to once again calm to some degree. He was just doing things by instinct—It was a rather interesting, and frightening, feeling. 'She's too thin…Need to work on that.'

He was happy that if she heard his thoughts, she didn't respond.

The others looked somewhat alarmed at the announcement, and Manny spoke up, obviously having come in some time during the night. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, what do you mean 'They're here'?' I think alarms would have gone off if…" He trailed off as Alma shook her head furiously, switching back to telepathy grudgingly. _'No, no, no, they aren't like that. Aren't like you.'_ She looked down at herself. _'Or not like me, now.'_ Once again, she seemed in awe that her body moved—That she wasn't tied up in a tank somewhere.

Sickening.

Manny was about to say something, but Pierce cut him off, looking to diffuse any situation between the two. "You mean that our enemy is…invisible, so to speak, isn't that right?" The blonde was new to this situation, to this fight, but he had read enough reports to know what to expect. Though, he had a sinking feeling that if a 'ghost' made it's presence known in the room, he may have a small heart attack. Normal, right? He was a captain, nothing more—Yet, for some reason, he knew that he wouldn't leave. Maybe something to do with duty, maybe something to do with the woman in the room, but he knew deep in his heart that this was for keeps. For better, or for worse—Most likely the latter.

Garrett and Harvey were watching on in interest and trepidation, while Pierce and Manny began to suit up. Even if this were a trick, a joke, a mistake, they sure as hell weren't going to be caught in the crossfire if something really did happen. "What the fuck…We really can't catch a break around here." Manny mumbled the words under his breath, catching a dirty glance from a few other soldiers in the room. He either didn't notice, or ignored it—It would have been humorous if something mentioned cursing in front of a lady.

Becket realized that he needed to put on the few protective elements he did possess, and load his weapon—Both of which meant letting go of Alma for a bit. He leaned in a bit, and spoke softly. "I need to get ready, alright? Don't worry. Nothing bad will happen if we have anything to say about it." Pierce overheard, and nodded his head soundly, a smile on his youthful face. Alma looked at Becket, but she didn't seem to relax at the words. Speaking up, she grabbed his hand, perhaps something that she couldn't help. "I'm going to help. I'm going to help you." The words were weak, but behind them was nothing but honesty. Did she even understand what was going on, truly? How was she seeing the world, at that very moment?

Pulling his hand away, she shuddered, but he had to prepare. "Alma, you don't have to use your throat until it's healed." She looked at him, seemingly confused, a bit of hurt in her eyes. "You can, if you want, but…You should let it become stronger."

"You talk like this. I talked like this. Let me use it. Please, let me use it."

Becket looked at her, as he pulled his armor on, pulling on his gloves.

'_I talked like this.' How much does she remember, really?_

He sighed, frustrated, but knowing anything with her would be a losing battle. Tenacious, wasn't she? "You can use it. Just try to let it heal. It won't hurt after a while, alright? Promise."

She nodded her head, dazed, fingers against her neck. The new recruits were watching her with interest—Fear seemed to be last on the list of words to describe her. But the other soldiers seemed to have not forgotten, still warily eyeing the woman. The thing around her neck, the device, had left a small mark on her neck from how she had restlessly slept. But it was necessary, maybe.

Maybe, someday, it wouldn't be. Even now, Becket thought it was a little much. Of course, he had lost his sanity, he knew it--But she hadn't been in that kind of pain since they freed her from the tank. She hadn't gripped her head, hadn't screamed like that, meaning she hadn't tried to harm anyone at all. Then again, it was still early...He had to pray that she wouldn't feel the need to get revenge anymore. They could help her, maybe.

What was this change in him? One minute, his fear overwhelmed his senses--And the next, he felt too compelled to be the hero. Her hero. Had she done this to him, or had he done it to himself?

Was he looking for someone to protect?

Their eyes were swiftly assaulted by the red blinking of alarm sirens, spinning round and round, a rather loud horn sounding in alert. Not that it mattered—The commissioner was barging into their room at once, making the men jump, and making Alma curl into herself in shock, noise coming from her throat silenced by the noise surrounding them all.

"Get out to the main hall. It's Stokes, something is wrong. Really fucking wrong." He was out of breath, gripping the door frame, looking every one of his years, and the blare of the alarms were loud, so loud, so serious. Funny, how the reminder of impending death can bring you back to reality. And it was strange enough, that Alma wasn't the cause of it this time. He wasn't sure he was prepared anymore.

Manny was the first to approach the man, his voice a loud snarl, as he made a not so subtle glare at Alma before he spoke. "Stokes? Is she hurt?"

"Something is…messing with her. Messed with me too, made my head fuzzy, but it left pretty quick. Was only here a few seconds." He tapped his head. The man was shaking still, Becket noticed. "Something ain't right, I just didn't think it would show up like this—"

Becket was finished arming himself, prepared for the fight—But he wasn't prepared for Alma to rise from the bed, walking up to Rodney, eyes wide, peering into the older man's with interest, as if looking for something. The man was still, panting heavily, trying to steady himself, and he didn't speak a word as the reanimated woman peered inside of his mind.

Perhaps she would have found something too, if Manny hadn't pushed her back, shoving her with more force than necessary. She was a fragile woman, after all, physically, and she immediately fell to the floor, letting out a small noise as she fell.

Becket rushed forward, livid beyond belief, kneeling down, asking the woman if she was alright, hand in hers before he could help himself. The culprit was already gone, having pushed past the Commissioner, walking to the scene of the crime. Pierce had rushed over as well, and Rodney, no matter how wounded, kneeled down to speak to her. "Forgive him, Alma, I am so very sorry that he did that." It still sounded as though he were afraid Manny would be left with no skin in the hallway somewhere, yet with a little more confidence.

She didn't seem to have truly reacted to the situation, staring up into Rodney's eyes again, her body shaking under Beckets hand, staying focused. Suddenly, she shook her head, struggling to get to her feet, in a rushed state. Had she seen something bad? Something that predicted things to come?

The alarms had ceased, but the red was still spinning, morphing their vision. "Do you feel pain?" Her question was soft, and her eyes remained on the Commissioner, wary, perhaps as she realized the push. Manny was an asshole, Becket knew it, but that was a little much. Lack of sleep, maybe? Or maybe he was just taking things too well, personally.

"No, no pain. Just a little shaken up, is all." He didn't know whether to thank her for the question, because he assumed it wasn't out of concern that she asked. She whispered the question, before using her telepathy, to respond to the admission of no pain from the other man. _'You won't feel pain. They were looking for something. You didn't have it, so they left. You're safe now. So don't worry.'_

The man nodded softly, watching with a little amusement as the reincarnated one seemed to keep so close to Becket. The soldier seemed to accept it easily, and he wondered how the connection worked. It was strange, but by no means unwelcomed. They needed someone to keep her calm. But the extent to which it worked was a miracle of sorts. Of course, this whole situation may just be a miracle.

And after these words ended, there was resonance. Things that he remembered hearing in the thin corridors. Things that made him think he had been going mad.

Her sobbing, childlike. Piercing. Making his anger rise at whoever caused it. Had they been the culprits? Had they torn her apart like this?

'_I know what I am.'_

But how much did she know?

He would turn to glance behind him, and there she would be. Crouched, or standing tall, wounded, dead. And he was ashamed now, that he would sometimes draw his gun and shoot out of fear. When he went to Still Island, and saw the lonely swing, and a little doll on the ground, abandoned. He had turned, and there she had been, watching the scene, a corpse. It was too horribly sad to think about, really. He knew that when that doll had fallen the ground, she had never held it again. It was the last moment that she was free.

His amazement spiked, that she was standing beside him now, a person, real and breathing. Blood ran through her veins now too. She was shaken up, maybe she couldn't be completely fixed, but she was trying. Damn it, she was trying, wasn't she?

Becket admitted in his mind that this was a new experience to him. During his time within the past month, wandering through the dark corridors of the buildings nearby, seeing her out of the corner of his eye, suddenly being grabbed by her with no warning, his reaction to push her away instantly. Yet now, perhaps he understood. Why was she so calm when he was near her? Because of the experimentation? Must be, because he wasn't really a calming soul. Not one bit.

A scream came from the hall, and all eyes snapped in that direction. The Commissioner ran, of course, wanting to take care of his team, but the others followed just as swiftly. Becket glanced at Alma, not knowing what to do. She would follow anyway, he supposed, yet for some reason, thinking of her wounded wasn't something he could handle. Before he could say anything, she began to walk, somehow keeping her legs steady. The pants she wore came to her ankles, and her bare feet made him think back to the time when they were covered in blood. As bad as it sounded, seeing her clothed was something he wasn't used to. Of course, it was a welcome change. This made her seem more plausible.

_'Be careful. I'm sorry.' _

He heard it, and assumed it went to everyone. Maybe earlier, when he had the visions, it had affected the others. He certainly hoped not. She would start to feel like a burden. Then again, she'd been made to feel that way since she was little, when the kids at her Kindergarten had shoved her away.

Gathering himself, he followed, walking beside her, in case she stumbled. "Do you know who they are?" He wanted to say something stupid, like 'Did you know them when you were, you know, dead?', but it left a bad taste in his mouth. That was in the past, wasn't it? Her timeline was too confusing for him. For her too, he figured.

She hesitated for a long time. He nearly told her that it was fine not to speak, but she nodded weakly, the vibe in the place getting much darker, very quick.

He nodded slowly. "How many are there?"

This time, she quickly shook her head. Her eyes squinted, and she stopped briefly, wrapping her arms around herself, taking a few deep breaths.

_'Is this...a dream?' _

He watched her curiously, shaking his head, even if she couldn't see. "It's not a dream." Did Alma know what a dream was? Or only nightmares?

The high pitched scream in his head, angry, wondering why no one would hold her.

_'Am I really here now? You can see me?" _Her head was against the cold wall, as if she needed something physical to touch her, to let her know that it wasn't a phantom.

How did you help someone through this?

It was as he suspected. She remembered how he'd shoot his gun out of fear, push her cold body away. He shook his head, needing be as gentle as possible with the situation, even with the commotion ahead.

_"Don't run away. Don't leave me." _

When she said it, it sounded like she hadn't logically said it at all. Becket was pretty sure he imagined it. As if she were portraying a memory, the many times that he had pushed her away, her reaction to it. It wasn't a conscious plea, but he would still respond to it.

The time in the elementary school, strewn with scarred desks and colorful posters, the floor and walls covered in blood, and the lights flickering. Every few moments, he could see her, a ghost, searching for_ something,_ for _anything._

'And scaring me shitless in the process', he thought.

"I'm sorry that I pushed you away. You have to understand, I was...Look, I can explain more to you later, but you're here. You're right here, now, and we can all see you. I'm pretty sure I don't have any reason to run away. Do you think I'm right?"

The soldier touched her shoulder, and she turned quickly, flinching, mouth ajar, as if realizing finally that she wasn't in some hallucination._ 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. So sorry. I'm bad.' _

Becket shook his head. "You don't have to be. Do you want to hurt us? Do you want to hurt me?"

Alma shook her head forcefully, as if the very thought were causing her physical pain. Her breathing was quick, and he worried that she'd pass out from stress. Hell, if they woke him up, and tried to make him reintegrate this quick, he'd probably lose it.

"There is nothing to worry about, then." He forced a shaky smile onto his face, moving his hand down to take her hand, ready to take care of business. "Can you be strong for a little while? Let's get this taken care of, so we can all rest."

She held his hand tightly, and nodded her head, eyes back into the daze.

A lighter mood emerged.

'Damn it, Becket…How the hell can _you_ be so helpful?' He couldn't help but wondering it to himself. Maybe he was as strange as he seemed to be bland.

As they approached the main hall, wide and spacious, the tile floor was already dotted with blood. Turning the corner, his gun drawn, he was only confused by the scene before him. Stokes was there, yes, on her knees, hands gripping at her tied up hair, quiet and still, while one soldier, one he didn't know personally, seemed to be attached to the wall. But as quickly as he believed that to be true, the man fell to the ground, hitting it with a sound thud.

"FUCK!" Manny shouted the word, gun drawn, ready to shoot at anything that moved too quick. "I ain't meant to deal with fuckin' GHOSTS." Noticing that Becket and Alma had arrived, he motioned towards the scene. "Go on, do something. You're still on their side anyway, right? Talk to them!"

Pierce spoke up in a voice unlike his own, stronger and rustier. "You best shut your mouth. This isn't about _sides_, this is about doing what's right. Give her a chance." Glancing over at the woman, he nodded his head, this being his first experience with the 'paranormal.' He hadn't seen what the others had. And even if he had, he knew that forgiveness was the only path here.

After all, had they already forgotten the video tapes? The little girl who wanted to be a protector, and not a murderer?

The hall was white and gray, no decorations to speak of—What you would expect a warriors barracks to be. Yet, this wide room was never so full of anger, and hatred, and pain, and violence. Becket was tempted to check on Stokes, but since no one else was, he wasn't sure if it was safe. Turning to Alma, he meant to ask, but she was already walking forward.

Why did he want to stop her?

There wasn't noise from the readied soldiers as the woman walked forward, not a breath too loud or the sound of a gun. Her clothes so disheveled, her hair falling around her face, somehow, she was not frightening. She should have been. But instead, she was simply wounded. She was the monster in their dreams, who was now here to be their savior.

Kneeling down in front of the female soldier, she tried to peer into the others face. To no avail—Her eyes were tightly shut, hands gripping her head too tightly.

'_My Alma, my sweet little Alma…' _

It was frightening how loud the words were. The windows to the outside shook, the floor beneath them seemed to shudder. A males voice, commanding and strong. A voice that couldn't be mistaken.

Harlan Wade.

The team was looking around, guns cocked, most of them shaking without being able to fight it back. Even Becket, who needed to be strong, for himself, for _her, _could not seem to shake off this terror. After seeing the man become a loving, caring father, turning slowly into the scientist they all knew, it was even more frightening.

How could she possibly feel now, hearing her fathers voice?

She was standing up, looking around, as if she were a little child who had accidently let go of her balloon.

It was breaking his heart, right down the middle. And if the other members of the team had any decency, it would be hurting them too.

"Daddy?" She spoke up, walking forward. "Daddy, you came back? Are you here to take me with you?" The meaning of the words were lost on the team, but they could not erase the videos from their mind--The girl asking her Daddy to stay with her, to not lock her away again. Wondering why she was giving birth to a child that she couldn't remember conceiving, and the man trying to tell her it was a miracle. What was he--A loving father and a scientist, or a heartless monster?

The way Alma stumbled forward, as if her energy had been stolen, was difficult to watch. She was still so thin, too thin, though she certainly wasn't as frightening as the corpse Becket had seen countless times. The shock on her features made him want to rush forward, but he held his ground, knowing somewhat how she felt. This was her father...She had missed him, so much, hadn't she? Yet there was no smile on her face, none at all.

"Show yourself, bastard!" Manny screamed, ready to empty some of the bullets from his gun, and quick. Rodney shook his head, extending an arm. "Hush your mouth, don't tempt—"

Suddenly, the soldier, who had been knocked unconscious from his fall, was getting up, at lightning speed, running for Alma—who, whether because of pure shock, or because of the metal collar around her neck, didn't react quickly enough. Tackling her to the ground, and grunting, eyes pale white, under his control, the puppet master himself, the father. Ripping at her shirt, the soldier reached for his knife. She screamed, voice blazing in protest, and clenching her eyes shut, seeming to be caused by the pain in her head. Was she...

'_You shouldn't be out, my little Alma. Go back. Go back to the vault. You're dangerous. You're going to hurt everyone. Go and be safe. Keep them safe.'_

It didn't take much more than that. Becket rushed forward, ready to take a hit or two, so long as he didn't lay a finger on her. Grabbing the back of the man's uniform, he pulled him up, delivering a swift hit to the face with the butt of his gun, sending the man down easily. Pierce, ready to be of help, came over to make sure he didn't get up again.

Gathering the girl up in his arms, who was now clutching her head strongly, her fingers like claws as she gasped for air, Becket checked her for injuries—Perhaps there would be a few bruises, but nothing she couldn't handle, right? Either way, he asked her softly, "Are you alright?", trying to pry her hands away. "It's okay, I'm here. Nothing is going to happen, relax, relax, relax..." He just had to make her calm down. Picturing her killing someone now was too painful, knowing that deep within herself, she didn't want to do it. She didn't deserve any more blood on her hands.

There was silence as she calmed down, opening her eyes, and looking up at Becket with an expression that he couldn't decipher. Nodding her head gently, her body shaking too much, she made it to her knees. Independent, wasn't she? Yet he knew that he could help. The reason, he didn't know so well.

'_Where are my babies? Give them back to me.'_

The question was pleading, her voice, even in telepathy, sounding on the verge of tears. Glancing around at the others, Becket realized that Pierces gun was shaking a little too much, his eyes squinted, exhaustion on his face. Her proximity, it was difficult to them, he knew--But this was caused by the subject at hand.

A fifteen year old, forced to give birth, not even knowing that she was carrying another life inside of her.

The father answered swiftly. _'I don't know anymore, my sweet little girl. I don't believe them to be alive now, not anymore. One of them, at least, is here. Nearby. He has been searching for you.'_

A long silence.

"Not alive…" Her voice, pushed through her vocal chords, was shattered. _'Nearby?'_

She stood, and he couldn't stand it. Taking her hand, he hoped that it would calm her. But what was being said, could that be made right? The others were also listening in spellbound horror. None of them knew anything of her children—Other than the fact that they would have grown up, while she was trapped underground. But…_died_? Why? Disease? Or maybe something else…

'_Yes, sweetie, he is nearby. But he is bad. Very bad. I am sorry. My poor little girl...' _His voice, disembodied, took him back to the time when Alma frightened him, more than she did now, when she would blink in and out of sight. Horrifying, wrong.

She squeezed his hand, but maybe it was just a reaction. He wasn't going to leave her side, and slowly squeezed back. He had lost his damn mind, he knew it. '_Tell me about him, daddy, tell me about him! He's my baby, tell me!' _ Her stance was angry, and her eyes…They were taking on the yellow stare, the frightening yellow glare that meant danger. The collar around her neck, tight, was keeping them safe. Then again, if it were off, would she turn on them? Or within the short time that she had been awake, in her new body, had she changed at all?

He would like to think so, even if it were just high hopes.

'_He can see, my darling Alma. He can see what you can see. He has killed, as you have killed, committed horrors. Dangerous…But he feels no sorrow for his crimes. I am so very sorry...'_

Her head swung to look up at Becket, eyes pleading. He didn't know what to say to her, to make things better. He didn't know what to do, and no one else could either.

"He can see?" Her voice was small, disbelieving, eyes viewing a world in ruin. "He can see it?" Taking in a breath, she let out an ear shattering scream.

The windows shattered into a million small pieces.

The members of the team jumped, moved back, some on one knee, ready to shoot--Or, like Pierce, hand over his mouth, watching the scene as though it were a dream, letting his guard down completely. Becket didn't know if that were a great idea, but he could at least understand the feeling.

'_Oh, my sweet little girl…It seems as though you could not even birth one meant for this world. You came out wrong, my little one, and you cannot even pass to the next life as other people do. All wrong…I am so sorry.'_

Becket wanted to tell him to shove his apologies, and make things right. But they couldn't turn back time.

Her grip on his hand was weaker by the moment, as she collapsed onto the ground, sobbing loudly, other hand pounding at the ground, as she fought to cry and keep her eyes open. Pierce looked on the verge of tears himself, from fear of the unknown, and from the terribly painful words being spoken. After all, Alma could affect the mood of a place—And it was obvious what her mood was now.

Rodney spoke up. "What do you mean by saying this to her? What do you want? What is your goal?" He walked forward, standing between the incapacitated Stokes, and the horribly wounded Alma. "You have no control over her now. She is free now, and you cannot effect her life. What do you want from us?"

A soft, fatherly laugh, sending a chill through the team, and making Alma stop her sobs for a moment. _'To warn her. To warn all of you. I must.'_

Stokes seemed to snap out of her trance, glancing around in confusion, body shuddering. "What the hell..." She glanced around, and immediately realized that things weren't solved. "That thing was--" Rodney quieted her with a finger over his lips, bowing his head in recognition. She nodded, shakily grabbing her gun, and keeping still. Her eyes traveled to Alma, and she wasn't able to look away.

As Alma raised her head, blood dropped from her mouth, no doubt from her torn throat. She wasn't done sobbing, that much was obvious, and as she looked at Becket, who was kneeled beside her, she couldn't hold back once again, and sobbed more, leaning against his arm for support, her hand clawing at his in desperation not to be separated. He wouldn't dare push her away this time, even if she tore his arm off.

Not this time.

Manny spoke up, checking on a rather lost and confused Stokes. "Warn us of what? Of her?" He looked at Alma, but couldn't manage a glare—Not when this had happened. Not when she was so hurt. Not when her body, her actions, were so innocent of crime.

'_I believe he was warning you about me. But you will only get what you deserve.' _

The voice wasn't the same. Turning back towards the hallway, where the soft, gravelly voice emanated, a man stood, in uniform, hair short, a tall build. But something wasn't right.

Too pale. Skin blood spattered. Eyes missing.

'_It has been too long, Mother. Are you happy to see me?'_

_

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Interval 5 Complete, 95%

Coming Soon: Interval Six: First Gaze – Paxton Fettel, Murder, and Confessions

A/N – Now, this chapter is going to be added too a bit. Think of this as part one, and the next chapter as part two. I just wanted to let you all know that I'm back, for sure. A lot is going on, yes, so the next chapter is going to be much more intense, and will have a strict mature warning on it. Of course, let me know your thoughts—I've missed you guys, and I apologize much.


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